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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26094850">City and the Beast</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zlu_and_Luff/pseuds/Zlu_and_Luff'>Zlu_and_Luff</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Original Work</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Action, Action &amp; Romance, Businessmen, Comedy, Crimes &amp; Criminals, Danger, Dark, Drama, Eldritch Abominations, Fallen Stars, Friendship, Gay, Gods, Humor, It really has a little bit of everything - in a good way c;, LGBTQ Character, LGBTQ Themes, Lawyers, Lies, Love, M/M, Male Protagonist, Motorcycles, Mystery, Mythical Beings &amp; Creatures, Mythology References, Organized Crime, Original Character(s), Original Fiction, Past Lives, Please read our story XD, Priests, Rebirth, Reincarnation, Relationship(s), Religious Imagery &amp; Symbolism, Romance, Sex, Shamanism, Supernatural Elements, Suspense, Urban Fantasy, cosmic horror, m/m - Freeform</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-08-25</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-09-13</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 04:47:49</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>5</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>42,540</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26094850</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zlu_and_Luff/pseuds/Zlu_and_Luff</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>City and the Beast is a story about a thief trying to find the key to getting his life back on track, about a homeless man who wants to stop stealing lives, and about a wayward biker delivering packages for a shady priest. In the streets and docks of New Coalport the business is booming, shadowy figures are lurking, and you get to experience their double-dealings from at least three different perspectives. Who is the beast and who is the man in this city, and do falling stars really bring luck? Do people need ears to hear, and how can a lawyer cause a basement crack? Read and find out! And if you like it, please leave us a comment, that would mean the world to us! :3</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Original Character(s)/Original Character(s), Original Male Character/Original Male Character</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Sojourner</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>City and the Beast, the original story we've been writing for the past 7 years, is finally here! We will be updating it on here (slowly) but you can already go read all we have published on our website https://www.sharadrass.com/ :3 We don't mind if you leave us a comment here instead, but please do comment in general and tell us what you liked, we'll die happy &lt;3</p><p>We also have a tumblr blog for the story at https://cityandthebeast.tumblr.com/ where you can send asks and such! We might try to reply to some of those with art/funny doodles :3!</p><p>And now, enjoy the story!</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <h2 class="has-text-align-center">
  
</h2><p>
  
</p><p>
  
</p><h2 class="has-text-align-center">Prologue</h2><p>In the beginning, there was the nameless Beast, free to roam and plunder the wastes of the cosmos as it willed.</p><p>The Beast chased comets and scattered starry beads of constellations across the galaxies. It tore apart planets with its thousand claws, and watched them die with its thousand eyes. Wherever it passed, the suns burnt dimmer and the void grew ever colder.</p><p>Among the stars the gods waged war against that nameless horror and they won, putting an end to its reign. When the Beast fell, deep down under the surface of space and time, they built a gilded prison to contain it. And to watch over it, from the golden desert sands and copper rocks of planets marked by the passage of the abomination, they shaped a timeless guardian.</p><p>They entrusted to him one single task.</p><p>To keep the nameless Beast forever under lock and key.</p><h2 class="has-text-align-center">Chapter 1</h2><h3 class="has-text-align-center">Sojourner</h3><p class="has-text-align-center">⚞☆⚟</p><p class="has-text-align-center">(<a href="https://youtubeloop.net/watch?v=tXTx1xfZEi8">Music&gt;&gt;</a>)</p><p>
  <em>1983. Somewhere in the USA.</em>
</p><p>Luke woke in an unfamiliar bedroom. The cold moonlight was just bright enough for him to get an idea of his surroundings. The bed was too large for one person. A folded nightgown rested on the other pillow. A massive wardrobe stood at the opposite wall. The few items on the bedside table were arranged carefully and neatly. His own pajamas felt fresh and new.</p><p>Luke sat up. He tried to calm his heartbeat. When it evened out, he got out of bed. Stepping lightly on the floorboards, he snuck out into the corridor. Without switching on the lights he inspected the other rooms through half-opened doors.</p><p>Nobody.</p><p>Luke stepped into the bathroom, and after a moment’s hesitation, dared to flick on the light switch.</p><p>An unfamiliar troubled face looked back at him from the mirror. The man was probably in his late twenties, rather good-looking and well-groomed. Luke brought a hand to his face. The stranger in the mirror did the same. He ran his fingers over the neatly trimmed beard. Putting so much work into one’s appearance was vanity, but it took effort nonetheless, and Luke could appreciate a job well-done. It was a shame the beard had to go.</p><p>Luke rifled through the shelves. Some of the items looked different, but the brands were still the same. He quickly packed the essentials into a towel. Then he gave the stranger in the mirror a guilty look and proceeded to shave off the beard. The less he looked like the man he’d woken as, the better. When he was done, Luke grabbed the bundle of supplies and left the bathroom, heading downstairs.</p><p>A short inspection assured him he was completely alone in the house. A consolation.</p><p>No longer afraid of being discovered, Luke headed into the kitchen. He switched on the light. A newspaper on the table grabbed his attention. He checked the date. August 20, 1983. Twenty years had passed. His knees grew weak, and Luke rested heavily in the chair closest to him.</p><p>He looked around. The items and the designs of the furniture did not look as wildly different as they did the last time he came back to life. Still, the world around him was changing at an alarming pace. It frightened him. But in truth it was the lesser of his worries. Forcing the mounting despair out, Luke prepared for action.</p><p>He checked the time on the large round wall clock. Two after midnight. He couldn’t waste the nighttime. He needed to pack and leave as quickly as possible, before the other inhabitants of the house returned.</p><p>Luke went through the contents of the kitchen drawers and collected the few items it made sense to take. A folding knife, a spoon, a fork, a water bottle, a can opener, a flashlight, batteries, scissors, matches, lots of matches. Luke added them to the bundle from the bathroom.</p><p>He scrutinized his collection. It was a start.</p><p>He headed for the fridge. But before he could open the fridge door, his eyes fell on a piece of paper attached to its surface with a magnet. It was a child’s crayon drawing of a family. Two children, a woman and a man who looked somewhat like he did now. The author of the drawing had left clarifications above each figure. Bobby, me, Mommy, and Daddy.</p><p>Luke froze, paralyzed, his hand hanging in mid-air. The guilt that accompanied each of his unwanted rebirths crystalized once more in this happy little crayon drawing. Luke stared at it, unable to move. Why did he have to orphan these children? Why couldn’t he have woken in the gutter, a useless old drunkard without relatives or friends? Or a convict in a prison cell, sentenced for life?</p><p>Hot tears ran down Luke’s cheeks, and for a while he could do nothing but stare at the idyllic image of a happy young family that he had ruined. If only he could give back the life he’d been thrust in, return it to the man in the picture, even if the price for it would be damnation eternal and the fires of Hell, he would do it. Better that than living this guilt-ridden nightmare, bringing death and misery wherever he went.</p><p>But there was no escape from this horrible cycle. The best he could do for this family, was to escape as promptly as possible.</p><p>Luke wiped his tears away with a pajama sleeve. Another image on the fridge caught his eye. A photo of the man whose life he stole holding an oversized check with lottery winnings. The number on the check was mind-boggling, but that wasn’t what caught Luke’s attention. It was the date — August 11, 1983 — barely over a week ago.</p><p>That must have been it. He took the lives of the lucky ones.</p><p>Luke tried to comfort himself with the thought that the recently won money could help this family deal with the loss of the husband and father. He had no idea what the man whose body he now occupied could have been like, but evidently he had been loved. </p><p>Luke tried to ignore the fridge door and instead got busy with what was behind it.</p><p>A quick search through the fridge and the shelves on the walls provided him with provisions for a week or two. A second tour around the house and garage yielded a large backpack, a sleeping bag, a set of clothes for cold and hot weather, two pairs of shoes and, most fortunately, a bicycle.</p><p>Luke packed everything he could into the backpack and onto the bike and left it all at the door outside.</p><p>Dressed in warm autumn clothes, Luke sat down at the kitchen table one last time. Smiling faces looked at him from a family photo he had brought from the living room. David Mance, the man whose life he had stolen, stared at him accusingly from his driver’s license. Guilt and resignation washed over Luke as he started writing.</p><p>He couldn’t explain to the Mances what had truly transpired. He could hardly make sense of it himself, even as it happened time and time again. But he knew their loving husband and father was gone forever.</p><p>Whatever it was that placed him in the bodies of other men each time he died, be it divine punishment or some evil will, left no traces of the body’s original mind. And no memories for Luke to work with other than his own — a shattered story of death and perpetual rebirth. He couldn’t share <em>that </em>with the Mances. All he could do was try to prevent them from searching for him. He had already stolen a member of their family. He hated the thought of causing them another loss. So he had to leave. And they had to let him go.</p><p>
  <em>My beloved wife,</em>
</p><p>
  <em>It is with great pain in my heart that I must say farewell to you and our darling children. I have committed rash and foolish acts, that will put us all in grave danger should I stay. Please, do not try to find me. Do not await my return. I am a peril to you all. So I depart forever.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>I love you dearly, and I pray Heaven to keep you all safe and bless you with a more deserving spouse and guardian to take my place.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Please, forgive and forget me.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>I am with unabated affection your</em>
  <br/>
  <em>David</em>
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      <em>Luke by <a href="https://twitter.com/iisjah">Iisjah</a></em>
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    <p>Luke felt awful, signing the letter this way with the man’s own hand. But what could he do? He needed all the credibility he could muster. If the family thought the letter was fake, they would certainly try to find him. And then they would be in mortal danger.</p>
  </div>
</div><p>Luke studied the letter for a while. It was far from perfect, the words were his, but at least the handwriting was David’s. Luke bent it in half and put it down on the kitchen table. He tucked the driver’s license back into the wallet and rested it on top of the paper just in case.</p><p>He took the bike and backpack and left.</p><p>The cruel distant stars were the only witnesses of how the man who was no longer David Mance left his home and rode into the night, heading for the state border.</p><p class="has-text-align-center">* * *</p><p>
  <em>Late spring, 1984. New Coalport, USA.</em>
</p><p>A whirr of an engine behind his back. White light in the puddles under his feet — headlights.</p><p>Luke ran.</p><p>He did not look back, and he did not stop. Not until he was several blocks away and completely out of breath. Luke leaned heavily against a brick wall, panting. His heart was pounding in his ears, but there was no sound of pursuit. A false alarm.</p><p>A group of vagrants gaped at him from across the alley. They stood in a tight circle around a fire barrel. All faces were turned to him, their eyes wide open. He recognised a few of them. And they recognised him as well. One of their kind, but not their lot. Moments later most of them lost interest and went back to warming their hands over the fire. How he wanted to join them. But he couldn’t. For their sakes.</p><p>Luke pulled his jacket tightly around himself and wandered on. His sneakers were wet, but at least the running helped him get warm. It was going to be another long cold night.</p><p>He had made his new home in the backstreets of New Coalport. It was the big city at its worst: never sleeping, restless, at times violent and dangerous, with a crime-ridden underbelly and shining teeth and claws made of glass, steel and concrete. Lights flicked on in windows at all hours of night, like eyes of beasts in a forest at night, predatorily watching him. He did not like the place, not in the slightest. But his previous experiences as a vagabond had taught him that it was easier to survive in the big city. And staying alive was the only kind of stability he could afford.</p><p>As long as he was alone and aimless, he was no threat. And thankfully most people had very little interest in a vagrant. Unfortunately, not all of them.</p><p>Luke glimpsed the Citizen from a distance. The man was dressed too well to be homeless, his gait expressed confidence and purpose. As he marched through the side alley, he stared at Luke with a look of a man heading for an execution. Luke ran again.</p><p>“Stop! Damn you!”</p><p>Luke did not stop. They would have to shoot him or worse if they wanted him to cooperate. He wasn’t going to let criminals keep profiting from his curse. Or at least he wasn’t going to make it easy.</p><p>They ran for a minute. The man behind him was cussing and grunting. Luke had the impression he could maybe even lose him when several figures appeared ahead, shuffling through the backstreet with no particular purpose. Luke froze, terrified of coming close to them or of leading the criminal towards them.</p><p>“Fucking finally!” The thug caught up with Luke and slammed him into the wall, then took several hurried steps back. He was partially bent over and panting like a dog, his stubbled face red with effort and fury. “Don’t you fucking run away again, you hear me? Or I… I’ll shoot one of those useless fucks!” The man pointed a finger at the bewildered bums, causing the group to hurriedly scuttle back into the dark alley they’d just emerged from. “I’ll kill as many as it takes to make you cooperate.”</p><p>“No, please, I’ll do what you want!” Luke threw his hands up. He felt disoriented after hitting the wall, but he knew a slow response could make the Citizen think a demonstration was in order. “Please, don’t kill anyone!”</p><p>“Same to you. Fuck.” The thug spat aside, then straightened and looked at Luke with a frown. “Come with me, quick. We have a long trip to make, and I don’t want to be around you any-”</p><p>He did not finish as a loud creaking came from above and a section of a fire escape came crashing down. The man barely managed to jump out of its way. He grabbed Luke and pulled him after himself as he ran down the alley.</p><p>“Nuts, this is nuts. I am not dying because of you, you stupid accursed hobo!”</p><p>“Let me go, leave me alone, and it will stop!”</p><p>“No damn way.”</p><p>They ran a few dozen feet, then the criminal stopped to survey the wreckage behind them. He swore again and looked up to see if there were other hazards to look out for.</p><p>“If I do this job, I’ll be off the hook. If not, I’m dead. I can’t go back. So either your bullshit kills me or I get the job done.” The man turned to Luke with a grim expression.</p><p>Luke grimaced. “There is no need for this. Maybe you should instead use my curse to try to leave the city. That way you would be safer, and it would take less-”</p><p>“Maybe you should shut up,” the man barked, looking embittered. Then he waved for Luke to follow. “Come with me, but keep your distance until I gesture for you to come closer. And don’t even try to run. I meant what I said.”</p><p>Luke nodded and eagerly let the man walk ahead. He did not want any more fire escapes falling down on either of their heads. In all honesty, he wanted nothing to do with this man or the rest of the Citizens, but the gang that ran New Coalport’s underworld had somehow found out about what he could do, and they hadn’t left him alone since. He had considered fleeing the city, but most means of transportation involved being around other people which would cause more of what he was going through right now: someone was bound to have a goal in mind, and his curse would help them achieve it… if only they survived the ordeal. Which wasn’t usually the case. Or at least not with ordinary people. The Citizens had proved unusually resilient, Luke guessed it was to be expected from dangerous outlaws.</p><p>The man that led him through the back alleys was unfamiliar to him. Luke didn’t have high hopes for him. Most of the Citizens that had been sent to him were atoning for something that had drawn the wrath of their superiors. Those who survived never came again, except for a female duo that seemed to be an exception to the rule and turned up every once in a while. Somehow those two women always made it through, and they didn’t seem to be doing it as a punishment either. Luke did not know how to feel about that. Watching the criminals die was just as horrible as witnessing the death of any other person. But if some of the Citizens had not been as adept at surviving his curse, perhaps the gang would have left him alone.</p><p>They walked for over twenty minutes. In that time the Citizen shot a stray dog that attacked him, intimidated his way out of an attempted mugging and narrowly dodged a speeding motorcyclist while crossing a street. All that with Luke trailing tens of feet behind him. When the man finally waved for him to approach, Luke was almost shaking with anxiety. Things were going to get so much worse any moment now.</p><p>“Come on, move it. We’re almost at the police station.”</p><p>Feeling the gravity of every step, Luke started to cautiously close the distance between them.</p><p>“I said move it, we don’t have all night!”</p><p>“What is your name?” Luke asked hesitantly.</p><p>“What does it matter?”</p><p>“I’d like to pray for you.”</p><p>“Ugh.” The man rolled his eyes, then seemed to reconsider. “Adam.”</p><p>“I’m Luke.”</p><p>“I know. Now move it, Luke.”</p><p>Luke crossed the last few steps to stand next to the doomed criminal. After their march through the back alleys the man no longer felt like a stranger, and Luke was comforted by the thought that he would at least have a name to keep in his prayers should the worst come to pass. </p><p>They didn’t make it far when the low hum of the half-sleeping city around them was drowned out by the wail of police sirens that rose, and then grew distant. Adam smirked.</p><p>“It’s our cue.”</p><p>They jogged out of the side street and onto Jubilee Avenue. Luke had previously lost track of where they were going, too focused on looking out for dangers, but now he knew, and that gave him no relief. Jubilee Avenue wasn’t going to be empty, not even this late at night… And yet it was. Luck, it appeared, favored them in this particular matter. Luke almost sighed with relief, but instead gasped as his companion grabbed him by the jacket and pulled him after himself, breaking into a sprint.</p><p>“No way, no freaking way,” the Citizen rasped in disbelief. </p><p>Luke saw a figure slink by the red brick wall of the police station then disappear into an alley. They were headed after the fugitive. But before they made it into the alley, Adam tripped over something, and both of them flew tumbling onto the concrete. Luke barely made sense of what happened when Adam dragged him back up and into the alley in another mad sprint.</p><p>“Olivier, stop where you are!” Adam yelled into the alley. “Don’t make this difficult or I’ll shoot your nuts off first and only then put you out of your misery.”</p><p>It was too dark in the alley to see clearly, but Luke thought he glimpsed their quarry hide behind a trash container further away. As his eyes got accustomed to the dark, Luke saw it was a dead end. The chase was done. Adam would do what he had to, his goal would be achieved, and the danger would be gone.</p><p>Adam pulled out the gun he’d used to shoot the dog before and aimed. “Get out of there, you slime. At least die like a man if you couldn’t live like one.”</p><p>“F-fuck you, Simmons! Fuck the Citizens!” The voice that came from the other side of the alley was trembling and soaked with venom. The man called Olivier did not leave his hiding spot, but he did not remain silent. “I won’t grow old in jail to cover your asses.”</p><p>“Your family woulda been provided for, and you woulda been released early, you dumbass.”</p><p>“My family can rot! You all can rot!” Olivier yelled. “I’m not going back to jail!”</p><p>Adam walked forward aiming the gun at where he suspected the other man was. He kept close to the wall not to let Olivier jump him. Luke stood at the mouth of the alley watching in horror, not only because a man was about to be killed, but because it was his curse, his power that had allowed Olivier to escape the police only to be slaughtered by one of his former comrades. Luke realized that this man was also a criminal, possibly a killer, and he did not sound pleasant either, but did two wrongs make a right? Was it somehow less terrible if Adam killed him just because he was also a crook? No, Luke hated the idea just the same. But what could he do?</p><p>Unconsciously Luke took a step forward, words forming and dying on the tip of his tongue. Was there something he could say, something to appeal to Adam? To prevent this murder from happening?</p><p>A muffled noise, like a pop, then a crack and an infernal roar. The wall Adam was walking by exploded into fragments of brick and a fiery cloud burst forth. It was like Hell itself became manifest and rushed into the alley. The force of the explosion shook the ground and knocked Luke off his feet. For a moment he stayed down on the ground, hardly able to make sense of what was happening, then he sat up and stared in horror at the gory mess on the wall now lit by the violently burning flame. That was all that was left of Adam.</p><p>Luke croaked, unable to form words. He caused this. He wanted to stop the murder. But at what cost? One life for another? No, he didn’t want that, he only wanted to talk. Tears began to stream out of Luke’s eyes. Was Olivier even alive? Did both of them die?</p><p>The previously quiet avenue outside was coming alive, windows were lighting up, voices could be heard from the police station. Luke scrambled to his feet and ran in the direction he and Adam had come from. He did not stop running until his lungs burned and his legs gave way. Then he collapsed onto the wet asphalt of another dark sidestreet and lay there alone and weeping.</p><p>In front of his eyes were fragments of skin and bone, flesh and fabric singed and squashed by the explosion that he had caused. One careless step, and a man was dead. Maybe two of them. He didn’t want this, he didn’t want any of this! Why did it have to be him? Luke wanted to die, but he knew that wouldn’t solve anything, sooner or later he would steal another life, maybe one that would put him into an even more calamitous situation. No, self-destruction was not an option. He had to keep living and try not to draw disasters on innocent bystanders at least. And to do that he had to be in good shape and not dying of a cold because he lay on the wet asphalt in a heap of self-pity mixed with self-loathing.</p><p>Luke got up and did his best to tidy himself. It was all hopeless. But he wasn’t going to give up. Giving up would be selfish and irresponsible. He would do his best, even if it would never be enough.</p><p>Luke sighed, hugged himself and plodded off into the night, feeling hollow and aimless, and praying quietly for the souls of a man called Adam Simmons and another he knew only as Olivier. Two more names added to the litany of deaths on his conscience.</p><p class="has-text-align-center">⚞⚿⚟</p><p class="has-text-align-center">(<a href="https://youtubeloop.net/watch?v=UFblGHBR76k">Music&gt;&gt;</a>)</p><p>Wyatt swore under his breath, as he continued walking in the rain. He couldn’t afford to wait it out, he was already late. The weather forecast had promised there would be sun all day and just a ‘refreshing drizzle’ in the evening — New Coalport was a city known for its great weather — but it was just Wyatt’s life to get caught in an unannounced downpour on a sunny day. The spread newspaper he had been holding above his head for the last couple of minutes, wasn’t helping much, but the thief chose to hold onto it for a while longer. The items stuffed into his shabby backpack weren’t really supposed to get wet if he was hoping to pawn them.</p><p>His brisk walk turned into something more of a trot, as the rain grew heavier. Wyatt looked up from under the paper and discovered that the sky was a nasty lead color, and that the front page article about a new hospital being founded by a renowned local entrepreneur was starting to drip ink all over his hands. His finger had smudged Hector Viteri’s perfect smile, turning the businessman’s face into a dark sinister blob. How could they print newspapers of that low quality? Wyatt was suddenly glad that he didn’t need to pay for it. It would have been more practical if he’d stolen an umbrella instead, but then again, those didn’t usually lie uncollected on people’s doorsteps. He wasn’t even sure if this qualified as theft.</p><p></p><div class="wp-block-image">
  <p>
    
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</div><p>A few streets further, he decided to take a short break and perched on the sill of a shop window. The drenched newspaper was clearly about to breathe its last, but before giving it a proper burial in the nearby trash can, Wyatt resolved to at least take a better look at what was left of its information value. His parents had always told him to make the most of what he had. Only a few pages were still readable and as irony would have it, one of them held the column on recent crime. Or mostly, the lack thereof. For a mob operation, the Citizens ran a surprisingly tight ship. Crime and backroom deals were happening in New Coalport all the time, but they were mostly small time crimes like his petty theft, and those were not interesting enough to write about.</p><p>There were very few murders in New Coalport and not many violent crimes in general and the rumor had it that it was not thanks to the local police. The very same rumor said that it was the mysterious boss of the Citizens, referred to only as ‘the Man’, who held his city safe — allegedly more so than the police NCPD ever could — ensuring that the crime did not get in the way of New Coalport’s prosperity. The law enforcement was on a constant quest to find him, but failed to do so for nearly twenty years. The city was divided in opinions on the matter. Some people wanted the Man behind bars, others thought it was better to let him continue what he was doing. </p><p>The thief didn’t have an opinion on the matter but he’d heard stories about how the place used to be once, before the Man took over, how people were afraid to leave homes after dark. While Wyatt was a fairly new addition to New Coalport himself — having moved here just five years ago — it was clear that much has changed for the better around here over the last two decades. He didn’t know how much of it was due to what exactly, but Hunter — his thieving mentor of sorts — had told him that when the Citizens took over the organized crime turned <em>really</em> organized, while regular haphazard crime just ceased to exist. Apparently the older thief had been here when it happened and things in the early days when the Citizens were establishing dominance were not as rosy as they were now, and bodies of criminals who failed to adjust turned up left and right. But that was over now, the streets were clean and the whole system seemed pretty clockwork. Even too clockwork for Wyatt’s liking. He wished he hadn’t become a cog in that machine. His failure at life had forced him to pick up thieving, and as he’d found out soon after, every thief in New Coalport had to work for the Citizens and pay dues to their leader. </p><p>Speaking of which, it was time to go and do just that. He still had a few days but it was better to be safe than sorry. If he didn’t pay up on time, he would get branded, which was something he really wanted to avoid. Wyatt sighed and crumpled the wet newspaper, getting even more ink on his hands.</p><p></p><div class="wp-block-columns">
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      <em>Ocher by <a href="https://twitter.com/iisjah">Iisjah</a></em>
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</div><p class="has-text-align-center">* * *</p><p>“Oh, there you are at last. I thought you’d never… Jesus, Ocher, what happened? Have you strangled a chimney sweep with your bare hands on the way to me? Did he try to drown you first?” His fence, a tall, middle-aged woman in a pristine white shirt and an elegant sleeveless blazer arched a fine eyebrow at his miserable state.</p><p>Wyatt locked the door, just to be safe, and proceeded to zealously wipe his shoes on the inside doormat. When he heard the question, he ran a hand through the mess on his head in an awkward gesture, unwittingly making it even worse by wiping the ink from his hands into his wet sandy hair. “Hi… Uh, no, just got caught out in the rain, is all. Sorry you had to wait. I’ve brought some good stuff.”</p><p>He made his way across the pawn shop and began to unload the contents of his rucksack and pockets onto the counter.</p><p>She was still looking at him with slight disbelief. “Caught in the rain, huh? Is your roof leaking now, or what? I thought you were getting your car fixed.”</p><p>Wyatt sighed, “I was.”</p><p>“But?”</p><p>“I… had to sell it instead. Long story. Anyway, will you take a look? I promise it’s not all junk. I didn’t bring any accidental keys or stuff like that this time.” He waved his hand at the stack of items. A couple of small but pretty purses, a couple of brand new college textbooks, a camera, a car radio and a slightly battered Walkman constituted the foundation of the pile. Piled on top of them were a few audio cassettes, a calculator, sunglasses, a few small fancy bottles of perfume, a swiss army knife and even a wrist-watch that <em>could</em> turn out to be silver. It was his haul from the entire month. Which he considered pretty damn good, given he was mostly thieving on the weekends, and he got a few wallets with some half-decent cash in them too. In fact one of them was leather and could even be worth something as well. He added it to the pile.</p><p>The woman shook her head at Wyatt, put on her glasses and began browsing the items.</p><p>“Have a seat, Ocher. I need to take a look at that tech and glitter, might take me a moment.”</p><p>She waved him towards a set of nice upholstered armchairs setup for the clients, but afraid to dirty the chairs in his present state, instead he sat down on a bench near the door. He waited in silence, idly shuffling his feet, watching her and the shelves lined with all sorts of goods.</p><p>Wyatt knew that most, or maybe even all of those, were legitimately pawned items. Everything he brought that his fence decided to keep, would be then passed on and shipped off to some other city, or perhaps to a different state. Most pawn shops around here were under too much scrutiny from the police for the Citizen-affiliated shop owners to risk selling the locally stolen goods. Those weren’t the mainstay of his fence’s business anyway. Probably a side hustle at best. Sometimes Wyatt had the impression that he was the only thief that ever came by here. That this lady fenced for him only out of pity and that she gave him half-decent prices for the very same reason. She seemed like a nice person for a pawn shop owner, and while his fellow thieves pawned their stuff in seedy places or through complicated multi-step deals that allegedly gave them better prices, Wyatt came here instead, because she made him feel welcome and normal. Well, as normal as a part-time thief trying to sell stolen items could feel. </p><p>“That radio, it wouldn’t happen to be the one from that car you’ve sold, is it?” the fence chatted him up, probably just to break the silence.</p><p>“No, of course not.” Wyatt faked a light-hearted chuckle. He pawned that one to her a year ago to pay the overdue rent, though he would have never admitted it was his car radio.</p><p>Brief silence again. The fence seemed to grow thoughtful and looked at him with a serious expression. “You know, Ocher, I don’t mean to intrude but maybe this really isn’t a job for you. Maybe you should just tell your parents the truth, move back to your hometown, start over and get another job…”</p><p>Actually, scratch that previous thought about feeling welcome and normal. It was downright awkward coming here every month, and it was all his fault. While he still didn’t know the fence’s name, and she only knew his thief nickname, over the course of the last two years he made a mistake of recounting the approximate story of how he screwed up his life to her. Now she knew things not even his friends and parents knew, and tried to offer him life advice. He should have never whined to her, not even in a vague manner. Confiding in criminals was stupid and unprofessional. But he wasn’t a professional, in fact, very far from it. The way there are Sunday drivers, he was a Sunday thief.</p><p>“No, why, come on, I’m fine. Don’t worry about me. I’ve<em> got</em> another job.” He did. It paid the minimum wage of $3.25 per hour before tax, while his rent alone was nearly three hundred. “And that car sale really really helped!” It didn’t. The car had been a wreck even back when his parents bought it for him some five years back, when he was moving out of his little hometown to study in New Coalport. “I’m going to be alright.” He shouldn’t even have to explain himself to her, she was his fence, not his therapist. But he created this situation and now he had to sleep in it. Wait, that was not how that saying went…</p><p>The woman looked up at him again, and he could clearly see that she wasn’t buying his answer. He suspected that she actually liked him, in some pitying kind of way. By now she knew he was neither particularly good at what he was doing, nor too happy to be doing it, and she probably didn’t want to see him end up behind bars. But knowing that someone gave a shit about him didn’t really make Wyatt feel better. It just made him feel like more of a failure.</p><p>The fence understood that her advice was unwanted, and she didn’t touch the subject again. She finished studying the perfume bottles, and asked about the stolen cash. He gave her the numbers, making sure to also report what he got from Craig for the IDs found in the wallets. Wyatt had no idea what the guy did with those, but Craig was always eager to buy them off of their whole little thief gang, and they were happy to sell them to him for some extra cash rather than dump them in some alley, even if the latter was the more decent thing to do. The fence added the numbers to her calculations, and presented him with a note that she was probably going to burn or shred soon after he left. As always, she explained what share of his haul would be passed on to the Citizens — fifteen percent. The gang had a firm grip on all the proceeds from crime in New Coalport, and even the small time thieves such as him had to play by the rules and pay their dues on time, for fear of losing way more than their source of income.</p><p>Wyatt took a long look at the scribbled summary and nodded. He had been hoping for more, but this was better than nothing. She left out some things as always. They must have been less valuable than he thought. Wyatt was already used to some of the stuff not being accepted. In the beginning that was most of the stuff he was bringing in, but he’d learnt what to keep and what to dump overtime. He normally didn’t take it personally when his fence rejected an item, but seeing she didn’t put the Walkman on the list, he couldn’t hold back a question.</p><p>“Why aren’t you taking this one? Is there something wrong with it?” These used to cost over a hundred bucks back in the day and he could really use that kind of money. Plus he had to sprint real hard while stealing the backpack he later found this Walkman in. It kind of hurt that she didn’t even touch it.</p><p>The woman looked at him with sympathy. “Oh, honey, this is a 1980 model, and I’m sorry but didn’t you hear the news? Sony is releasing a new generation portable player this fall. A revolutionary device. It’s going to play CDs. Compact discs, you know? I’m afraid this won’t sell anymore, especially considering its, well, rather worn-out state. But you know what, Ocher? I think you should keep it. And these cassettes too.” She moved them towards him. “You really look like you could use some music in your life.”</p><p class="has-text-align-center">* * *</p><p>When Wyatt stepped out and down the often trodden stairs, it was already dark outside. Leaving the pawnbroker’s place behind, his backpack felt lighter but his heart not so much. The rain had ceased and as he walked back home down the wet streets, Wyatt took a deep breath, trying to find relief in the damp, almost-fresh smell of the evening air and the flood of city lights. Reflecting in the puddles, those lights followed him wherever he went like curious eyes. No, that was<em> not </em>a relaxing thought. He hoped nobody was actually following him from the pawn shop. He wanted to keep his life as far apart from his thug life as he could.</p><p>He dropped by the local grocery shop right before it closed to pick up some basic necessities now that he got some cash, and returned to his tiny apartment too late to do anything other than go to bed. It wasn’t that late but his mornings started awfully early. Still, he would have normally tried to write an entry in his journal, but recently there was simply nothing to write about, at least nothing that wouldn’t incriminate him, should the police or his parents, or anyone really, ever find that notebook. There was a message on his answering machine; Hamsi, his Indian friend from the geology faculty was inviting him over for her delicious homemade murgh makhani and, as he was quite sure even though she’d left it unspoken, for another round of her and her sister’s monthly attempts to convince him to pick up his studies and his attempts at a future career he’d flushed down the drain.</p><p>Unlike Hamsi, who had recently completed her university education with flying colors, he had dropped out of third year and continued to lie to his parents about everything ever since. In his lies, Wyatt was all they had ever wanted him to be. A successful graduate of the Bachelor geology degree, paying for his own Master studies and helping out his old parents, thanks to the successful job in the petroleum industry he’d landed right after graduation.</p><p>In reality, he was a nobody. A petty thief drowning in student debt he had to start paying off a few months after he dropped out of his university almost two years ago. Trying to keep up with his loan, his rent and expenses, and scrambling to find money to send to his old parents to help them cover growing medical bills, and substantiate the lie of his advancing career, was what made him turn to thieving. But even that extra income was barely enough, because he sucked at it as well. He sucked at everything he did and nothing in his life ever went as it should. He felt that failure lay somewhere at the very foundation of it, just waiting to happen over and over again.</p><p>As he rested his head down on the pillow, Wyatt thought that at least one thing he had told his parents was actually more or less true. He’d really landed a job in the petroleum industry. Just… not as a resource geologist.</p><p>He had to be up at five for the morning shift at the gas station. </p><p class="has-text-align-center">⚞☆⚟</p><p>Luke watched the midnight blue sky. Not a single star was to be seen. He found that one feature comforting about the big city. The stars scared him. The moon, however, was welcome. It was a much needed guide in the unlit back alleys he inhabited.</p><p>The quiche in his hands was cold but still delicious. It was a good quarter of a large pie someone had abandoned on their plate on a terrace outside a restaurant. Luke felt very proud of this catch. Moreover there still was half of a sandwich in his pocket from another table on the same terrace. Luke bit into the quiche and chewed long and slow, savoring it. How someone could leave food, especially something so tasty, to be thrown away was beyond him. People wasted a lot of food these days.</p><p>Gather up the leftover fragments, that nothing may be lost. Luke looked at the quiche he had salvaged. It wasn’t a sin to have taken it, he reasoned, it was unwanted, and he was a sojourner after all. A man without a home or destination, a stranger in a strange place and time, constantly on the run, living in fear. </p><p>But at least there was this quiche.</p><p>And the park around him felt almost peaceful. There was the occasional couple or a jogger on the trails, but the grass was still wet from the rain and thus universally unappealing — a perfect place for Luke to rest undisturbed. Luke closed his eyes and breathed in the smell of wet earth and vegetation. He tried to imagine he was back home on the farm, that all the horrors of his endless life never happened. He was almost able to let the smell and sensation of wet grass under his fingers transport him to those blissful days long gone, but the blare of a taxi horn outside the park shattered the budding image. Luke opened his eyes and sighed, watching the sleepless city lights between the trees. All good things had to come to an end.</p><p>“Hey, Lucky!”</p><p>Luke’s stomach lurched at the familiar voice, as he turned and saw two figures approaching along a trail. Today they were long-haired, blonde and elegantly dressed, but he recognized them anyway. Wilma and Betty, the only two Citizens who dragged him into danger time and time again and somehow always emerged unscathed. The women crossed the cut grass and stopped just a few feet in front of him — a risk very few consciously took. Wilma, the stockier and more sanguine of the two, smiled at him, while Betty’s face remained blank, her dead eyes vigilantly scanning their surroundings. </p><p>“Ey, there, Lucky Luke,” Wilma said. “Eat up and come along. We need your help dealing with the Dalton Brothers.”</p><p>Luke frowned. He had not heard that name before. Could those be some criminal rivals of the Citizens? The women laughed at his confusion, but they did not care to elaborate.</p><p>“Move it.” Betty nodded sideways.</p><p>Luke bowed his head and avoided meeting her gaze. “I won’t come.”</p><p>“We can make you.”</p><p>“And then it would be most unfortunate,” Wilma said, “if you caused some trouble on the way to the car, and we bumped into that big party right outside the park, a charity ball for blind orphans or somesuch. Lots of good people with a very intense sense of purpose, why I’m sure your presence would make the fundraiser a stellar success!” </p><p>“And a bloodbath,” Betty said.</p><p>Luke grimaced, almost shivering with self-loathing. “I’ll come.”</p><p>“Good boy.”</p><p></p><div class="wp-block-columns">
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      <em>Wilma by <a href="https://twitter.com/iisjah">Iisjah</a></em>
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      <em>Betty by <a href="https://twitter.com/iisjah">Iisjah</a></em>
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</div><p class="has-text-align-center">* * *</p><p>The sky was growing light in the East. Luke watched it anxiously from the backseat. His fingers played with the fabric of the unfamiliar jacket he now wore on top of his old one. It was a ladies jacket, but it was clean and almost new. The extra pair of trousers he got was too loose, but that hardly mattered while he was seated. For once he could not feel his own stench, just the strong unnatural aroma of the perfume one of the women had abundantly sprinkled on him before they let him into the car. That and the new clothes were solely for the benefit of their vehicle.</p><p>Luke’s stomach turned as he noticed two bright dots on the road ahead — oncoming traffic. The three of them had made it out of the city without much trouble, except one bursting fire hydrant and a falling streetlamp that Wilma skillfully avoided. There weren’t many cars in the streets in the dead of night. But this now could be where their luck changed. The lights ahead grew bigger, just like the falling star in the sky had done, all those years ago. Luke braced himself, shutting his eyes tight. He could still see the red glow through his eyelids.</p><p>Then, with a whoosh of night air, the car rushed past, and the road ahead was dark again.</p><p>“So how will you deliver Raph Olivier to us, Lucky? Will he fall out of the back of the paddy wagon, fly through the windshield and land in our laps?”</p><p>“Olivier? He is alive?” Luke sat up at attention.</p><p>“Oh yes, he is. He made it out of that blast unscathed, which cannot be said about Simmons. You did quite the number on that one, huh?”</p><p>“I cannot control this,” Luke said grimly.</p><p>Then he almost jumped up in his seat as with a loud honk a truck went off its course and drove into their lane, heading straight at them. Wilma slammed the brakes. Luke gripped the seat in front of himself not to face-plant into it. The truck passed them by a foot or so, driving off the road and into the field.</p><p>“Oh really?” Wilma laughed, then stepped on the gas again, driving on almost like nothing happened. “That was some convenient timing for something you claim you can’t control.”</p><p>Luke did not reply. He only frowned and moved further to the left behind the driver’s seat. He dreaded what lay ahead. Disasters were bad enough, but disasters caused while aiding violent criminals were even worse. He’d thought he had Olivier already on his conscience, but now he found out his guilt on that account was premature — he was only going to have Olivier on his conscience later tonight. Luke hated being a part of this. As if his curse wasn’t horrible enough, it was being used with malicious purpose by organized crime. But how could he stop them without causing more death and suffering? Even hiding from the Citizens a bit too eagerly could trigger this twisted luck of his, and then he could die, more people could die, was there even an end to this nightmare?</p><p>“There we are.” Wilma’s voice brought him back to reality. “Work your magic, Lucky.”</p><p>Luke tilted his head and glimpsed a large van ahead of them. This was it. This was where things would get much much worse. Luke shut his eyes tight and pressed his hands hard against his ears. The car sped up. Luke began humming softly. </p><p>“Hey, handsome!” Wilma called out to the driver of the van. “Handsome! Wanna race?”</p><p>An amused muffled response came from outside.</p><p>Four consecutive gun shots made Luke curl into a ball.</p><p>The car veered sharply to the right. Luke slammed into the door, fell to the seat, slid off of it and tried to huddle under it. Moments later the car came to a stop, and he heard the front door open. Luke whimpered, uttering apologies to God or anyone who would listen.</p><p>More shots were fired outside.</p><p>Luke lay in the car, praying for the souls that the vile women sent to Heaven, if there was such a place. Judging from his own experience, he couldn’t be sure anymore. But Hell was real. Hell was all around.</p><p>“No… Not you two! Please, I- I have a stash hidden away, saved up for retirement, I’ll tell you how to get to it, just, please, let me go!”</p><p>Luke heard Olivier’s voice outside. He smelled smoke. He stubbornly refused to sit up and look.</p><p>“Oh how sweet, Betty, look he’s trying to buy us! Pray tell, Olivier, how much is in that stash of yours? Our weekly cut? Two?” Wilma laughed. “Did you really think you could stick it to the Man and get away with it? Here, in New Coalport? You are so lucky that there’s always a second chance for those who repent. Oh wait, no, there is no such thing.” Then, in a grave, quiet voice she ordered. “Fry him, Betty.”</p><p>“What are you doing?!” Olivier yelled. “No, wait! I-”</p><p>The man never finished what he wanted to say, instead Luke heard only his garbled agonized screaming. It went on and on, seemingly forever. Luke lay shaking with his ears covered, trying to hum over the horrible noises. Even as the man finally fell silent, his wails still echoed in Luke’s mind.</p><p>Numbly, Luke took his hands off of his ears and stared into nothing. He heard one of the women open the trunk and take something out. A minute later something heavy was put in the trunk, shaking the car with Luke in it. A sickly burnt smell reached Luke’s nostrils, and he fought nausea and tried hard to think of anything but what must have happened outside. Where was he going to go once he was back in the city? How could he make the Citizens leave him be without hurting any more people? Would dying to steal another person’s life be the lesser evil in this situation? Or could they find him even then?! Was he trapped?!</p><p>“Lucky? Lucky Luke? Oh, there you are!” Wilma got back into the driver’s seat. “We’re dropping you off downtown. You look like you could use a drink. Betty, give him some change.”</p><p>“I- I don’t want your blood money!” Luke felt tears of anger replace those of horror and pain. “Just leave me alone!”</p><p>“That’s what we were going to do anyway. For now at least. But sure, if you don’t want your share, we’ll find a good use for it.” Wilma turned the key in the ignition, and the car started.</p><p>“I want to go for Greek,” Betty said.</p><p>Wilma laughed. “You want gyros? Now? Is that what the smell of burning flesh does for you? Very well. Greek it is. I wouldn’t have thought of that as a breakfast option, but after such an eventful night, heck, why not? Do you want to get Greek with us, Lucky?”</p><p>“I don’t want to have anything to do with you.” Luke climbed back into the seat and leaned his head against the window, staring outside as the car drove back onto the road. A part of him hoped another truck would come swerving their way and kill all three of them. He wasn’t sure if his death would cause more or less suffering in the world than his continued existence in this current body, but these two devilesses would not be missed.</p><p>As Luke was lost in self-destructive thoughts, the women continued chatting casually. Like they had not just killed several people and weren’t now transporting a charred dead body in the trunk of their car.</p><p>They went on about some brand of nail polish and about when someone called the Night Rider was going to return for another season. Wilma wondered if they were going to “catch the edge of night”. Luke could hardly follow the conversation, not that he wanted to, but it was hard to completely ignore the women. They talked loudly and with much zest, clearly in a stellar mood.</p><p>“But honestly Betty, I’m genuinely curious — why do you stick with Barney? I mean except for the Flintstones gag, what do you see in him? He’s not the sharpest tool in the box.”</p><p>“Yes. But his tool is notable.”</p><p>“Oh, hoho, Betty! Just how notable is it?”</p><p>Luke cringed.</p><p>“Notable enough. This thick.”</p><p>“Oh!”</p><p>“Not only do you have no conscience, you also lack in shame! Don’t you feel sick at your own words and actions?!” Luke couldn’t stay silent anymore.</p><p>Wilma let out a snort of laughter. “Pf, what are you, a Catholic schoolgirl?”</p><p>“I am Amish.”</p><p>“Why aren’t you in Pennsylvania then?” Betty asked dispassionately.</p><p>Luke grew grim. “I should be. I should have been. But if people have to die by my curse, the fact it’s sinful Englishmen dying makes the guilt a little lighter to bear.”</p><p>“Woah, woah, somebody’s grouchy.” Wilma kept snickering. “But you know what? America is the country of immigrants. You think it’s the sinful Englishmen that you’re killing but it might be folks from Germany or wherever you Amish have come from. Ha! Anyway, I’m surprised murder doesn’t come easy to you. By accident or not, sounds like you offed quite a few people. Maybe more than me and Betty together. What’s your death count? You do keep track, right? You’re so damn righteous, I bet you do.”</p><p>“Spill it, Lucky.”</p><p>Luke said nothing. Of course he kept track, he remembered every single person in his prayers nightly. But he wasn’t going to entertain murderers. And he shouldn’t have allowed them to make him say such awful things — all lives were sacred, Englishmen or not. Luke felt ashamed and even guiltier than before.</p><p>He made a conscious effort to ignore the women for the rest of the trip back to the city. It wasn’t easy, their voices kept interfering with his prayers, and whenever that happened his mind veered into the forbidden but highly desirable mental image of all three of them crashing and dying. In his case, hopefully for good. But those were sinful thoughts, and to compensate for them Luke prayed all the harder.</p><p>Finally, the countryside behind the window was replaced with suburban rows of single family homes and then with dark tenements and shops. Only rooftop billboards and upper floors of buildings were bathed in the pale light of early morning, the sky was still very dark in the West.</p><p>“Hey, Lucky,” Wilma announced at an arbitrary downtown intersection, “it’s your stop, off you go!”</p><p>Luke did not need to be asked twice. He scrambled out of the car and hurried away, as Wilma and Betty drove off, laughing.</p><p class="has-text-align-center">⚞⚿⚟</p><p>Wyatt walked down the staircase groggily. It was still dark outside, not at all a humane hour to set out to anywhere. It also served as a bitter reminder that he could have afforded an extra half an hour of sleep and left closer to sunrise if he still had his car. But oh well, such was life. There were others who had it worse. And at least car insurance and gas expenses weren’t going to be a problem now.</p><p>When he opened the door to the street, he saw a familiar, skinny silhouette huddled on the front steps of the apartment building. The man sprang to his feet when he saw him.</p><p>“Ocher!” The scrawny man spread out his arms, blocking Wyatt’s path. “I’m so glad to see you! You’re finally out, it’s early, I know, but I’ve been waiting for a while… Say, can you do me a favor?”</p><p>Wyatt looked around wildly. “Hunter… you’re not supposed to be here… like… ever.” He looked up as well for good measure, to make sure no neighbour was watching them from above.</p><p>The man’s arms fell to hang limply at his sides like he was a wilting plant. “I uh, I know, but I needed to talk to you.”</p><p>Wyatt grabbed one of those arms and dragged Hunter off the stairs with him. The neighbourhood was quiet and still mostly asleep, but he didn’t feel comfortable risking being seen with a guy who not only was a thief, but actually looked like one, especially in those sunglasses before sunrise. “You could have just called.” He didn’t want any of his gang calling his home number but it still beat them showing up on his doorstep.</p><p>”I would’ve, but I’ve pawned my phone. Can I borrow fifty green from you? I promise I’ll return it next week. Please?” Hunter pleaded.</p><p>“I’m sorry, Hunter, but it’s really not the best time.” Technically, it never was. “You know I’m just as broke as you, maybe even more.” Ocher started walking. He had to get going if he hoped to reach his work on time. He wasn’t even surprised by any of this. It wasn’t the first time his mentor was trying to borrow money and it wasn’t going to be the last. To the rest of their little gang, the older thief was mostly known as Two Bits, precisely because he hardly ever had cash on him unless he had just picked it off of somebody else.</p><p>When Wyatt first met Hunter those two years back, Hunter’s financial woes defied his understanding for a while. Despite his scruffy appearance and miserable demeanor, Two Bits was the most skilled thief out of the four of them. All the best tricks they knew, they had learned from him. He never got caught, his hauls were always impressive, and he could lockpick and pickpocket more efficiently than the rest of them combined. So where did all that money disappear to? Why were things Hunter actually needed to have in his apartment constantly being pawned?</p><p>All that had puzzled Ocher two years ago. But now he knew. Hunter… had a problem. Or well, a whole array of those. If he had to name the main one, he’d probably go for the poker addiction. But that was just one of his fellow thief’s many vices. Lotteries, races, all sorts of wild bets and games of chance made Hunter lose all self-control and common sense. And ever since he’d actually won the jackpot some years back, Hunter’s faith in his luck had reached absurd proportions and had never come down since. Any attempts to convince him he should stop throwing his money away were met with pitiful unrelenting optimism. Two Bits was sure he would win big again. In the meantime he only lost and he lost big. His uncommon skill at thieving was the only reason he still managed to stay afloat. But sometimes even that turned out not to be enough, and Hunter would try to get a little help from the people he considered to be his friends. Like Ocher now.</p><p>Hunter followed him along the sidewalk. “But… but I’m almost late with paying my dues.”</p><p></p><div class="wp-block-columns">
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    <p>“I’m really sorry but I’m almost late with paying my <em>rent,</em> plus you know that I have my student loans, and I’ve gotta send some money back home too. You don’t even pay the rent, Hunter… just your condo fees. Seriously, you make so much more money than any of us. Just stop, you know, gambling it all away and you’re set.”</p>
    <p>“I will, I promise, but I really need fifty bucks now, please, Ocher…”</p>
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</div><p>The thing was, hardly a day went by without Hunter promising to quit gambling. But he never went through with it. On top of his unwavering faith in his upcoming change of luck, some cruel person had once convinced him that he had a great poker face, and after that no amount of lost money could ever make Two Bits believe otherwise.</p><p>Wyatt kept walking.</p><p>“Ocher?” Hunter whined. “Please?”</p><p>“No, man, I’m sorry. I need my fifty bucks, and I know you can get yours easily off of someone who would mourn its loss way less. You’ve got a whole day before he comes, right? I’m sure you can make it.” He pitied Hunter, but one had to be decisive with him, or the older thief would start being over-reliant on others instead of trying to fend for himself. Sometimes Ocher still couldn’t believe that this man had been classified as a master thief by the Citizens.</p><p>“Alright, I get it.” Hunter sighed. “But since you’re out so early, could you at least give me a ride downtown?” He glanced wistfully at the parking lot where Wyatt kept his car.</p><p>Ocher’s shoulders sagged, and he told Hunter why he couldn’t do that. The parallel his mind began to draw between his sold car and Hunter’s constantly pawned belongings was alarming.</p><p>Wyatt’s workplace was exactly opposite to where Hunter wanted to go but their bus stops were in the same direction. And so they walked there, like the two losers they were. Or well, no, actually it was just Hunter who was a loser. Ocher liked the man a lot and appreciated him being his thieving teacher, but he also quietly considered him to be a cautionary tale of what his own life could become if he didn’t do something to change his ways. </p><p>At thirty-two, Hunter had no job, no girlfriend, no education and no future except for the life of crime ahead of him. Wyatt’s situation was entirely different. He was a whole decade and a half younger. He had perspectives. He wasn’t a gambling addict and he still could achieve-</p><p>“By the way, how’s your going back to university going?”</p><p>Wyatt’s self-esteem instantly deflated. “Uh, can we please not talk about it…”</p><p>“Sure.” Hunter lifted his hands in an appeasing gesture. “It just seems like something you should do at some point, with the loans and all.”</p><p>“Trust me, I know…”</p><p>Hunter was right. The master thief had never attended college, but it also meant he’d never dropped out of it and at least he didn’t have to pay off his student debt now, with literally nothing to show for it. And it’s not like Wyatt had a girlfriend either. Or a proper job. And unlike him, Hunter actually won that huge prize in the lottery once. Suddenly Wyatt wasn’t so sure anymore which one of them was the bigger loser. Had he already managed to become more hopeless than Hunter? Was he more hopeless than Hunter all along…?</p><p>“Alright, that’s me here. See you tomorrow at my place?” Hunter stopped at his dark lonely bus stop.</p><p>Ocher nodded, “Uhm. And Hunter…”</p><p>“Yeah?”</p><p>“Sorry that I can’t spare the money. If I knew you couldn’t get it, I’d give it to you. But I know you can. So please go and pickpocket those fifty bucks from someone today. And don’t gamble it away. Pay your dues on time.”</p><p>“Yeah, sure. I don’t wanna die.”</p><p>Ocher nodded one last time and crossed the street to his own dark lonely bus stop. They looked at each other from opposite sides of the street for the next ten minutes or so, like two idiot losers, until Hunter’s bus finally came, and Ocher was the sole loser left in the dark.</p><hr class="wp-block-separator"/><p>
  <em>If you’re reading, please let us know what you think! It gives us a huge happiness and motivation boost :3</em>
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  <em>In the notes, we’d like to share some fanart done for us, let’s start with <strong><a href="https://crazy-purple-kitten.tumblr.com/post/619202507555717120/this-is-my-first-ever-animatic-the-story-is-the">this beautiful prologue animatic&gt;&gt;</a></strong> done for us by <a href="https://crazy-purple-kitten.tumblr.com/post/619202507555717120/this-is-my-first-ever-animatic-the-story-is-the">Crazy-Purple-Kitten</a> (thank you so much!)</em>
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  <em>And also start sharing some music that inspired us while writing this story!</em>
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  <em>Here is our general story theme (song links lead to YouTube, probably a good idea to open these in a separate tab):</em>
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    <strong>Gravitonas – Lucky Star</strong>
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  <em>When every color lost its tone<br/>This broken heart you’re not alone<br/>You’d better hide albino clan<br/><br/>The former foe became your friend<br/>Don’t let those losers win again<br/><br/>You’d better run albino man<br/><br/>Our greatest secret never told – the rainbow gold<br/><br/>Cause I look to the east<br/>And I look to the west<br/>And I bless my lucky star, bless my lucky star<br/>I’m invisible, visible<br/>Un-visible, oh oh</em>
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  <em>So I bow to the priest<br/>And I wake the possessed<br/>And I bless my lucky star, bless my luck star<br/>I’m invisible, visible<br/>Un-visible, oh oh<br/><br/>Some vivid doctor runs the show<br/>God’s livid children stay below<br/><br/>They track you down and crack your code<br/><br/>But there’s a power you possess<br/>You meditate and then fluoresce<br/>You turn the tide and spears corrode<br/><br/>Our greatest secret never told – the rainbow gold<br/><br/>Cause I look to the east<br/>And I look to the west<br/>And I bless my lucky star, bless my lucky star<br/>I’m invisible, visible<br/>Un-visible, oh oh<br/><br/>So I bow to the priest<br/>And I wake the possessed<br/>And I bless my lucky star, bless my luck star<br/>I’m invisible, visible<br/>Un-visible, oh oh</em>
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<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Money Management</h2></a>
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    <p class="has-text-align-center">⚞ ¥ ⚟</p><p>“Have you heard about the police van burnt down last night?”</p><p>“No, what’s that about?”</p><p>“That guy… Oliver or something, was being moved to federal prison, looks like the Citizens broke ‘im out.”</p><p>“Didn’t he just escape jail and get re-arrested? And there was like, an explosion too. Ha! So much for effective police work.” </p><p>Yen glanced up at his co-workers. They always had to turn the back room of the car wash into some kind of hybrid of a news report and a talk show. Yen rolled his eyes and ignored the older men. </p><p>It was relieving to strip off the nylon and get back into his torn jeans and t-shirt. He couldn’t wait to be on the road with the wind in his hair and on his skin. The day had been way too stuffy, the car-wash felt like a damn steam cooker. At least the heat made the roads dusty enough to draw clients in. If he had to sit around doing nothing all day, he preferred doing it in better company.</p><p>Yen put on his sleeveless vest and closed his locker. The other men tossed amused glances at his colors, but didn’t comment on the biker patch. The face of a half-skeletal Egyptian pharaoh with a rainbow headdress was well familiar to them by now. The Pharaohs weren’t a big club, not by a mile, but their perseverance in the face of some clubs’ hostility had won the more open-minded locals over.</p><p></p><div class="wp-block-columns">
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</div><p>“See you guys tomorrow.”</p><p>“Evening, Yen.”</p><p>The air outside felt as if someone had left a giant oven open. The sun was beating down mercilessly on the dwindling vegetation, and there was not a whiff of wind. Yen walked his Honda V-65 Magna out through the back door. The mirror-like metal of his bike reflecting the summer evening made him smile. There were certain perks to working at a car-wash.</p><p></p><div class="wp-block-columns">
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    <p><br/>Yen by <a href="https://twitter.com/iisjah">Iisjah</a></p>
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    <p>He caught envious glances directed at his shiny bike all the way home. Or maybe people were glaring at the rainbow on his colors. Yen relished the attention either way.</p>
    <p>Leaving his bike in the garage, Yen walked into the house with a small bag of groceries. He kicked off his sneakers and progressed towards the kitchen in just socks.</p>
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</div><p>“Hey, Nana Riley, what’s up? I bought Calippos.”</p><p>The small energetic old woman intercepted him before he managed to set foot in the kitchen.</p><p>“Oh, so you did. Good evening, Yen.” She tore the bags from his hands with the skill of a seasoned mugger. “Sam isn’t back yet, so if you could be a dear and take out the garbage, I’ll serve supper.”</p><p>Yen looked down to discover the groceries in his hands had been replaced by trash bags. There was nothing he could do then but comply. When he returned inside, the table in the small dining room was served for two. Nana Riley came in bringing a huge salad bowl. </p><p>“Duck and pear salad with mango chutney dressing,” she announced triumphantly. “From that new cookbook Sammy bought me.”</p><p>“Sounds like it was a bitch to make.” Yen pulled out a chair and sat down.</p><p>“It sure was. Go wash your hands.”</p><p>Yen groaned but did not argue. The kitchen was just a few steps away after all. He was wiping his hands dry on a towel, when he heard the front door open followed by murmured greetings. Sam came into the kitchen and started washing his hands next to him.</p><p>“Hi,” Sam mumbled.</p><p>“Hi yourself.” Yen smirked. “You know you doomed your nana to cooking hell, right?”</p><p>Sam shrugged the accusation off.</p><p>“Boys, come quick, the salad is growing warm!”</p><p>The young men went into the dining room and took their places at the table to each side of Nana Riley, who at once set to filling their plates. While they were gone, she had turned on the radio. And now the host’s voice filled the void left by the prayers neither of them would want to say before a meal.</p><p>“… Mr. Viteri, but wouldn’t you agree that we should try to help the police investigation as much as we can?”</p><p>“Of course, we should. It is our civic duty,” the interviewee responded in a deep rumbling voice. “However, I do not intend to curb my patriotism just because a bunch of thugs chose the American flag as their symbol. Honest hard-working people shouldn’t have to adapt to criminals. If we let them take the Stars and Stripes from us today, what will we be left with? Do you suggest we drop celebrating the Fourth of July, because it complicates investigations? What other flag should American people fly? We cannot surrender the symbol of this proud beautiful nation to crooks and lowlives. We must reclaim the symbols instead by displaying them proudly. I didn’t fight in Nam to let some thugs limit my self-expression as an American patriot!”</p><p>Yen snorted. Nam, patriotic pep talk, this Viteri guy was another rich white nutter. But he did have a point. Being a biker, Yen knew first hand what it was like to be associated by the public with a bunch of thugs. The police still watched the Pharaohs with the same suspicion they held for the rest of the motorcycle clubs in town. The Pharaohs kept on the good side of the law, it was a part of their code. But they weren’t going to give up their biker lifestyle just to make the job of the police easier.</p><p>And Hector Viteri, a local businessman and public person, wasn’t going to change his flag-hanging habits because of the Citizens. After some deliberation, Yen nodded in agreement as the big cheese on the radio kept hammering his point in.</p><p>“This reminds me, Sammy.” Nana Riley perked up. “Would you take a ladder and hang out that new flag I bought?”</p><p>“Nana, it’s still May,” Sam protested quietly.</p><p>“So what? I’m not doing it for the holiday, I want to support the Citizens.”</p><p>Sam put down his fork and glared at the old woman with righteous anger. “Nana, they are murderers.”</p><p>“And who do they kill? Other crooks and coppers. For all I care, they are the best thing that happened to this town.”</p><p>“Nana,” Sam said with exasperation.</p><p>“Don’t argue with me, Samut. You have no idea what you are talking about. The city you love is a product of their activities. The Citizens cleaned up this place, while you were still sleeping with cuddle toys back on the West Coast. Before the Citizens we had turf wars, Ku Klux Klan and the highest violent crime rate in the state. Then the Citizens moved in. They made the Klan members and their cronies disappear, dominated the other gangs and allowed guys like this Viteri to bring their businesses here. Without the Citizens, Coalport would have become Detroit by now.”</p><p>“We don’t know that, Nana,” Sam disagreed.</p><p>“Yes, you two don’t. But I do. I actually lived here, I saw things change. What you and your friends do now, would have gotten all of you killed even ten years ago.” The old woman crossed her arms on her chest.</p><p>“Times have changed.” Yen tried to support his friend.</p><p>“Oh, have they? Why don’t you tell that to the kids in Idaho, who can get locked up for life if they get caught. You are gay bikers of color living in the open, you should be singing their praises, not bashing the Citizens.”</p><p>“Well, I personally don’t care about them. Love them, hate them, it’s all the same to me.” Yen lifted his hands in surrender.</p><p>Sam looked at him grimly.</p><p>“But this salad, now, that’s something I would like to talk about. I have not eaten anything this good since… Let me think… yesterday!” Yen stuffed in another mouthful and chewed.</p><p>The demonstration and flattery did their job, and a smile bloomed on Nana Riley’s face. “Aren’t you the sweetest little flatterer. Have some more then.” She filled Yen’s plate a second time.</p><p>Sam rolled his eyes and went back to eating in silence. Yen followed his example. The salad really was delicious. Far better than the food from the dumpster, even those cold but untouched pizzas he had once stumbled upon. And those had been some pretty good pizzas. Yen reminisced his days on the streets for a moment. With a roof over his head, a foster grandparent and a self-elected big brother, he was in a very good place right now.</p><p class="has-text-align-center">* * *</p><p>Culinary flattery apparently worked miracles on Nana, and Yen found himself off dishwashing duty. Triumphant, he went upstairs to the bedroom he shared with Sam. There he collapsed on his bed and studied the rad if unevenly taped assortment of heavy metal posters on his side of the room. It was in every way superior to the Ancient Egypt conspiracy board on Sam’s side. It spanned almost the entire wall, just like Yen’s posters, but, unlike Yen’s posters, it was woefully lacking in the undead, demons and hot guys. Arguably there was that one green guy, who, as far as Yen remembered, was actually dead in some way. And there was a large number of half-naked dudes, but they were all same-looking and standing in that silly pose Ancient Egyptians seemed to think the default for a human body. Yen snorted at the thought.</p><p>After a moment, he realized that he was alone in the room and could change in peace, so he pulled off his shirt and jeans.</p><p></p><div class="wp-block-columns">
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    <p><br/>Sam by <a href="https://twitter.com/iisjah">Iisjah</a></p>
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    <p>“What’s that?”</p>
    <p>Yen froze with a roll of banknotes in his hands. Sam stood in the doorway to their shared bedroom, blocking the exit with his boxy shoulders. For a guy that sturdily built, he sure could be stealthy. Yen stared back at him in silence for a moment.</p>
    <p>“Money.”</p>
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</div><p>“I can see that. Why do you keep it in your underwear, and where did you get it?” Sam did not budge, strategically blocking the escape route.</p><p>Yen considered his chances of jumping over him. Sam was short, but not that short. And with a job where he hauled boxes around most of the day, Yen was quite sure Sam could intercept him easily. The window was the only option.</p><p>“Yen?”</p><p>Yen backed away, towards the window. Sam seemed to read his thoughts, and his expression turned from suspicious to deeply skeptical. “Are you going to jump out the window in just your briefs? And then, what, live on the streets again to avoid answering a simple question?”</p><p>“Uh, I guess not,” Yen said. He had to admit his rushed escape plan had some flaws. It was almost painful how well Sam knew him.</p><p>“Where did you get this money?”</p><p>Now that escape was no longer an option, Yen decided to instead continue changing. He pulled on his shorts and an Iron Maiden t-shirt. “I have a second job.”</p><p>“Please, tell me it’s not drugs.”</p><p>“It isn’t.”</p><p>“What then?”</p><p>Yen turned to look his friend in the eyes and said slowly in a deadpan manner, “I work as a courier, delivering voodoo magic for a sexually liberated Catholic priest.”</p><p>Sam stared at him wide-eyed for a second, then looked very skeptical again. “Fine. Don’t tell me. Just stay safe, alright? I don’t want you getting in trouble… Wait, it’s not the Citizens you’re working for, is it?”</p><p>“Oh, please!” Yen threw his hands into the air, frustrated. “Will everyone stop with the Citizens already, all I hear today is Citizens this, Citizens that, it’s like some kind of marketing campaign. No, I don’t work for them, and I don’t intend to. You should worry about your grandma, she’s their number one fan, not me. Go preach to her.”</p><p>After some consideration and a measure of suspicious glaring, Sam headed downstairs to do just that.</p><p>Yen snorted and finished dressing. He unrolled the money and counted out his share, which he hid inside his pillow case. The rest, he rolled again and stuffed into his pants. It was time to go to his second job.</p><p>
  
</p><p class="has-text-align-center">* * *</p><p>Yen watched an asshole in a tailored suit leave the church and get into an expensive car. Most of the local congregation was white and upper middle class, but this one guy looked loaded. Yen remembered seeing him a few times before and each time wishing a seagull would take a dump on his windshield just to see the dude rage and wipe the shit off with a silk handkerchief. But seagulls were nowhere to be found when one needed them. And once again the fancy car drove off spotless.</p><p>Yen grimaced in disappointment, tossed his cigarette butt on the sidewalk and climbed the steps to the church. As always, the lofty interior and the stained glass windows failed to evoke any kind of feeling in him. He headed straight for the confessional, but it was taken, and there was a line too. Bad timing. Yen grunted and went to stand behind a housewife straight out of a sitcom, complete with a toddler in her arms. She glared at Yen.</p><p>“What, you think I don’t have sins to confess?” Yen asked.</p><p>The woman said nothing and moved away from him and closer to the old man before her in the line.</p><p>“You can confess to me,” Yen offered to the housewife. “It would save you the waiting. Not happy you had the baby? No one is. Especially your neighbors, trust me. They don’t like the screaming any more than you do.”</p><p>“Sh!” The old man turned to them and shushed at Yen.</p><p>“What, are you trying to eavesdrop?” Yen asked.</p><p>Now they were both glaring at him. The toddler meanwhile looked at Yen with a googly-eyed expression and reached out very eagerly towards the colorful buttons on his cut-off. Yen grinned at the baby. That did it. The mother evacuated the premises. Yen moved to stand closer to the old man, grinning at him too.</p><p>The old man looked at him attentively through thick glasses, then said. “Don’t hope for it, punk. I might die tomorrow. I’ve got nothing to lose.”</p><p>“Respect, man,” Yen conceded and waited peacefully behind the old man.</p><p>Finally, when his turn came, Yen entered the confessional, closed the door and pressed his face against the lattice, trying to make out the priest on the other side.</p><p>“Hi, Dad. Is that you?”</p><p>There was a sigh. “What if it wasn’t me? What then, Yen?”</p><p>“Then they would chase me out with a broom, and I would be yelling that if I should call your people ‘fathers’, ‘dad’ should be an acceptable alternative.”</p><p>“We’re not too big on synonyms around here. You could damage my reputation like this,” the priest noted sternly. “And you don’t want that, or do you now?”</p><p>Yen pouted. “You wound me, I would never sell you out. Not even if your pals went all Spanish Inquisition on me.”</p><p>“Good boy. But kneel at least.”</p><p>Yen got on his knees, fingers digging into the lattice. The position got him thinking. “Do these things have glory holes?”</p><p>“No… my dear child, they do not.” The priest said tiredly. “Now, don’t make me pray for your immortal soul, and since you’ve come here again, even after I said it’s not the best idea, do tell me how it went.”</p><p>“Swimmingly. As usual. I also got a tip from the friendly black grandpa who was last on the list. He said he liked my bike. Nice customers you have. I have the cash on me, but it won’t fit through these holes.” Yen reached into his shorts and pulled out a roll of banknotes. He poked it against the lattice to illustrate his point. “So you see why a glory hole would have really come in handy at this point.”</p><p>“Of course… Well, good job, my boy. And since we are now both so tragically aware of the flaw in the confessional’s architectural design, please put the money in the donation box instead. Just make sure nobody sees you do it. And as apparently your intentions were pure, forgive me for ever assuming.”</p><p>“It is not me you should ask for forgiveness, father,” Yen said solemnly. “Would you like to confess? This is kind of the point of this box, ain’t it?”</p><p>“Yes, indeed it is.” The priest readily agreed. “The point you’re still missing completely by coming here as often as you do. If not for the seal of confession, I would have problems explaining your peculiar pattern of attending church to others. You are lucky that frequent confession is encouraged. But performing the sacrament of penance as regularly as you do, you should also deign to attend mass once in a while. And spend some time listening to the word of God. Who knows, you might even learn something from my sermons. And if you come, perhaps you could even try to last all the way till the distribution of Holy Communion.”</p><p>“For you, I would even take part in the distribution of Communism. Just tell me when to come and what to do, and it will be done, father,” Yen said with exaggerated emotion.</p><p>“In case you never noticed, there is a mass schedule on the noticeboard next to the entrance, right next to the confession schedule that you seem to know so well.” The priest pointed out. “Now back to business. Tomorrow, you are off the hook, but I will need you to deliver several more parcels the day after. Come by my house tomorrow night.”</p><p>“Yes, sir.” Yen saluted.</p><p>“Any questions? If not, then off with you, boy.”</p><p>“One! So will the money I am to put into the donation box go towards improving the architectural design of the confessionals?”</p><p>“Bah, just go already, Yen, before I feel compelled to exorcise whatever vile creatures nest inside you.”</p><p>“Alright, see you tomorrow, Daddy.”</p><p>Yen exited the confessional and ambled towards the donation box. When he was sure no one was looking, he unrolled the money and dropped it in. He smirked. This box and him had a history. This box got him this job. Yen took a moment to appreciate the inanimate object, and then headed out before anyone started suspecting him of trying to steal church money, like he almost did once.</p><p class="has-text-align-center">⚞⚿⚟</p><p>After the morning rush of clients at the gas station, the hours dragged out. Wyatt regretted not bringing a textbook to read. He didn’t really want to study, but that still beat being bored out of his mind. He was tempted to flick through one of the newspapers or magazines which sat on display just within his reach from the cash register. But he didn’t dare. Ever since the security camera had been installed behind his back a few months ago, he was afraid to touch anything at the gas station shop, unless he had to rearrange it. The owner didn’t like it when the employees ‘groped the products for no good reason’. The fact cameras started popping up around the city this year stressed Wyatt out. How was anyone supposed to work like this? When he was out thieving, it was already nerve-wracking trying not to get noticed, even without having to additionally worry that you were being taped. And though he never planned to shoplift from his workplace, he hated the fact that he was being watched all the same.</p><p>Even if he did bring a book to read, Wyatt was sure that in a few days, his employer would have a conversation with him about how he shouldn’t be reading on the job. A similar thing had happened before. He used to pass the time jotting down random observations about people and places in his notebook. Then, as soon as the camera appeared, the owner put an end to that with the memorable, ‘Real men don’t keep diaries, Mr. Brooks, and if you bring that thing here again, I will throw it out.’, followed by the ‘It won’t make you a real man, but maybe it will be a start’. It wasn’t a diary, it was a journal, and how much of a man he was, was none of his stupid fat employer’s business. But Wyatt was too damn scared to lose this shitty minimum wage job to argue about either part of that statement. So, instead, he decided to write things down at home after work. Recently, he hadn’t been doing even that, but tonight he would turn things around and write an entry. Some fat guy won’t be telling him how to live his life. In a feat of minor defiance, Wyatt resolved to also bring that Walkman to work and listen to some music on the job. He could probably get in a day or two before his employer watched the tapes. </p><p>He almost got excited about it, but then remembered that next week he would be working at the gas pumps. He didn’t exactly look forward to that. People were full of contradictions. They wanted someone else to tank up their cars, but then often got way too worked up about their gas-tanks being handled by strangers. He could understand that cars cost a lot of money and therefore were a touchy subject, but he didn’t work for three dollars per hour to get yelled at on a daily basis.</p><p>Wyatt sighed. As much as he hated the cashier week, it still beat the gas pump rotation, so he resigned himself to his fate again. It was going to be another long day, and he didn’t even know when he was going to get back home. He had two… appointments to make, as soon as he got off from work.</p><p class="has-text-align-center">* * *</p><p>“Ocher!” Hunter exclaimed with unusual indignation. “What are my keys doing in your pocket again?!” The older thief lifted his hand and shook the keys before Ocher in a show of displeasure. “You have to control yourself, man. One of these days I’ll have to break into my own apartment because of you.”</p><p>“Aw shucks, I know, I’m sorry…” Ocher looked at him guiltily. Normally a question like that just begged for a counter-inquiry as to what the other man’s hand was doing in his pocket, but by now Ocher learnt that there was no point in asking. He was a key-kleptomaniac, and Two Bits had a habit of regularly and undetectably going through everyone’s pockets. That’s just how things were.</p><p>Hunter turned the keys in his hand and shook his head a little. “It’s ok. As your teacher, I am proud. But you’ve got to be careful. Or one day you might accidentally steal from someone actually dangerous.”</p><p>Ocher nodded and tucked his hands into his own pockets, where he could keep track of them. </p><p>“Did you manage to get that fifty bucks yesterday?”</p><p>“It took some wallet-fishing, but yes, I did.”</p><p>“And you paid up? Didn’t gamble it away?”</p><p>“Yes, and of course not. I didn’t have the time.”</p><p>“Phew.”</p><p>They were walking to Hunter’s place together. The upside of having these crazy morning shifts was that Wyatt was often free, when other people were still stuck in their nine-to-fives. Sometimes he would use that time to take pickpocketing lessons from Hunter, like he was going to do now. He preferred that to meetings in the evenings. Everything looked far less suspicious in the light of day.</p><p>Speaking of light, there was a lot of it today. It was so sunny that Ocher had to squint, when he looked at the skinny thief walking beside him. Two Bits was a few inches taller than him, and in this bright light his hair, usually seemingly black, looked mousy brown instead. There was stubble on his jawline and the infamous sunglasses were still sitting on his nose, though this time they were finally justified by the weather. They were what saved the whole ensemble from creating an otherwise completely pitiful impression. Or perhaps they only enhanced it. </p><p>Hunter’s jacket was stolen. So was his oversized shirt, his jeans and the money he spent to buy his sneakers. Even the bag of groceries in Hunter’s other hand consisted in big part of the food he stole on his way through the city’s public transit system. Snatching items out of people’s shopping bags was how he usually filled his fridge. Stolen money was too easy to gamble away, groceries far less so.</p><p>They walked into an apartment building, then into an elevator and Hunter pressed the button for the top floor. The doors shut and for a moment they just stood in silence, listening to the machinery. The tenement Hunter lived in was much less rundown than Wyatt’s. In fact, it was quite nice, in a better neighbourhood, and Hunter actually owned his apartment. Buying it with the lottery prize money was probably the only sound financial decision he’d ever made and selling it was luckily too much of a hassle for Hunter to bother, so Wyatt took some vague consolation in knowing that the older thief would wind up dead sooner than homeless.</p><p>Hunter had previously offered him to move in together. It would have been cheaper, and Hunter’s apartment was almost ten times bigger than Wyatt’s. It was too large for most families, let alone a bachelor. There was enough space for all four of their gang to live comfortably. But nobody wanted to live with Hunter and risk their stuff being ‘borrowed’ and sold to pay off gambling debts. Nothing in Hunter’s apartment was safe. Probably not even if you screwed it in. Even the furniture materialized and vanished like mirages in the desert. </p><p>Very much like now, when Hunter opened the door for them and Ocher noticed an empty space where the shelves used to be. When they entered the living room, it turned out the couch was also different than the last time. Much shabbier, but at least there was one. Sometimes things went missing entirely. The huge empty living room with an antiquated TV set standing solitarily on two concrete blocks and a wooden board was a silent testament to Hunter’s sins.</p><p>Ocher pointed at the couch, “Err, what happened to the previous one? Didn’t you say just two weeks ago that it’s the comfiest one you’ve ever bought and that it’s staying here forever, this time for sure?”</p><p>“Uh.” Hunter grimaced. “Like I said, I was going to be late with my dues.” His empty hand went up to grip the fabric of his shirt. Under it, as Ocher knew, was an old circular burn. Old but still fresh in Hunter’s memories. Two Bits got it a couple of years back, just before they met, though Ocher wouldn’t find out about it until a year in. It was a mark branded on the late payers by the Citizens, a warning you only got twice. Anyone branded two times paid his dues on time or died trying. Or more precisely, disappeared and was never heard from again.</p><p>Hunter looked at him miserably and Ocher somewhat regretted asking. But hearing this was actually good for him. It was a solid reminder of the consequences of staying in the underworld for too long. Luckily, he was never going to be a thief as good as Hunter was. With his status as a master thief came a larger debt to the Citizens than small-time thieves owed. And since Hunter stole a lot of cash to fuel his gambling habit, and the Citizens had no way to keep track of that, his dues were not deducted from what he got from his fence. Instead it was a fixed amount that was picked from him personally by one of the Citizens’ collectors. And so on top of the hefty condo fees the older thief had another large sum to pay biweekly with a late payment penalty much more sinister than an eviction notice.</p><p>“Maybe later I will buy the old couch back from the guy next door,” Hunter said without conviction. </p><p>They walked through the equally desolate dining room and headed for the kitchen isle, where Hunter deposited the bag of assorted stolen shoppings on the counter and started taking stuff out of it. They both watched the groceries Two Bits was unpacking with the same bewilderment.</p><p>“What is this? A giant breadstick? A baked baseball bat?” Hunter regarded a baguette with a complete lack of familiarity. In his experience, bread came in either burger buns or fine square slices meant for the toaster. “And this is the longest toughest piece of sausage I have ever seen. And a cucumber the size of my arm. I’m gonna cut all this lengthwise and we can have two extra long sandwiches. How about that?” Hunter pulled out several bottles of beer and set them on the counter as well.</p><p>Ocher peeked at his watch sneakily. He was kind of in a hurry with another meeting right after this one, but he didn’t want to rush the other man. He rather liked hanging around Hunter. Even though the man was older than him and had never experienced a baguette, somehow he was the easiest to communicate with out of their small gang. The thought was still hard to reconcile with, but Ocher guessed they connected on that subconscious born loser level that Kat and Craig simply didn’t share.</p><p>“Huh, sounds good to me.” Ocher looked into the bag. “Any butter here?”</p><p>Hunter searched through the stolen items. “No, but I’ve got mayo in the fridge, so that should do. I’ve stolen a lifetime supply of our favorite one from that store down the street. Just walked away with a crate of the stuff when they were unloading the van, so treat yourself.”</p><p>Wyatt opened the fridge and beheld the landscape of shelves loaded with countless jars of mayo and a few bottles of beer. His own fridge was often kind of empty, but this was something else. Ocher had a hard time deciding whether he was impressed or horrified, so instead he focused on trying to figure out which jar of mayo was already open. It took him a while but he eventually succeeded and applied a thick layer on both of the baguette halves.</p><p>“You can also take some home if you wanna,” Hunter offered generously.</p><p>Ocher wanted to say no thanks, but in truth, he realized he could use a jar of mayo. Every buck saved mattered, it brought him a fraction closer to paying off his student loan and getting his life back under control. “Thanks, I will later.”</p><p>“Sure, take two or three if you like, those things will expire in like ten years or something.” </p><p>Hunter cut up the odd-looking powdered sausage and placed one long half on Ocher’s sandwich and one on his own. Then, he added the cucumber halves and they sat down at the rickety dining table. Hunter brought the end of his sandwich to his mouth and prepared to bite, but hesitated with his mouth open, looking mildly disturbed for a moment. Then he bit off and chewed thoughtfully.</p><p>“This sausage tastes weird,” he said. And then cleared his throat and downed half of his beer.</p><p>Ocher tried his sandwich. “Yeah, it’s weird. Kind of tastes like camembert,” he said with his mouth full.</p><p>Hunter choked on his next bite. He coughed once, twice and then croaked weakly but vehemently, “N-no it doesn’t! Why would you even say such a thing…?!”</p><p>Ocher looked at the other thief mildly alarmed, but when he saw Hunter was breathing again, he relaxed. “Um, well, because it kinda does…?” Hunter was still red on his face and teary-eyed from the near-choking so Ocher added, “You okay?”</p><p>“… yes.” Hunter gave him a traumatized look and turned away slowly, focusing back on his sandwich.</p><p>Ocher frowned. Who knew that although unfamiliar with baguettes, Hunter was apparently a connoisseur of cheeses?</p><p>They chatted idly. The abnormally long sandwiches dragged over the table and then slowly vanished into non-existence. Bottles of beer accumulated between them. Finally that was all that was left: empty bottles and crumbs. Hunter regarded this artistic installation for a moment and then quietly burped into his fist. He peeked into the bag of stolen goods and produced a packaged women’s nightgown. It was pink and decorated with lace. Hunter gave it a skeptical look. “Do you think Kat would like this?”</p><p>Kat was the only woman in their gang, and so far she’d managed to avoid Hunter’s advances with the skill of a dodgeball veteran. She didn’t wear pink. The only notably feminine aspect of the female thief aside from the makeup was her cleavage, that played an important part in many of their schemes involving any kind of distraction. And she was never too enthusiastic about that particular side of her participation in the group. Unlike the rest of them.</p><p>Ocher regarded the item of clothing for a moment. “Err, no, I don’t really think it’s her style.”</p><p>“Aw shucks,” Hunter said, looking at the package with disenchantment. “I can never tell with these things. I guess you’re right.” He put the nightgown aside. </p><p>After a while even though they both felt full and sleepy after the gigantic sandwiches and beers, they finally got down to practice. They should have probably trained first and drank beer later, but oh well. The lesson started. Two Bits wasn’t exactly dream teacher material and Ocher was pretty sure that was the only student the older thief ever had, but Hunter was trying hard and Ocher was grateful for it, because he wasn’t exactly dream student or thief material either. </p><p>Despite Hunter trying to hammer pickpocketing techniques into his head, Ocher’s go to modus operandi after two years was still running or strolling off with bags, backpacks and items that people left lying by them on the ground in parks, street cafés or crowded waiting spaces, or snatching something from the passengers on public transit and jumping out as the doors were already closing. He could always trust his feet to carry him, but he was scared of pickpocketing on his own or even together with the others. But that meant he still sucked. His team expected him to be reliable in all situations. Instead of spending hours looking for an opportunity to steal something like Ocher did, a good thief could spot an opportunity everywhere or even craft it. Besides, a good thief never got caught, and him getting caught was how Hunter first met him and saved his skin. Luckily that was the only time it happened so far, but in order for it to never happen again, he needed these lessons.</p><p>Today, Hunter gave him some time to hide and then was strolling through the many rooms of his apartment, first in headphones, listening to Ocher’s Walkman, then without them, pockets stuffed with various items, while Ocher’s task was to follow him without getting noticed and then run past him or bump into him, stealing what he could without arousing suspicion. Each time Hunter would grab him or ask an inconvenient question somebody in the streets could normally ask, Ocher was supposed to quickly come up with a believable excuse to defuse the situation. Luckily that part came relatively easy to him. He was good at making up quick excuses and still rather poor at pickpocketing.</p><p>Then it was Ocher’s turn to stuff his pockets with things. They’ve already covered the easy moves during the course of last year, so this time Hunter demonstrated several of the more complicated pickpocketing techniques, fishing all of the cash and items in a manner of seconds. After about two hours of practice at home, Two Bits and Ocher hit the streets to get some real life experience. Now that Ocher knew exactly what he was looking at, the older thief demonstrated some of those higher level maneuvers on live targets. For now, he didn’t ask Ocher to repeat them, just watch and learn and gather his haul into a burlap bag. &lt;Ocher was kind of relieved by that, because half of the time he couldn’t see how Hunter coaxed cash out of someone’s back pocket, let alone notice which finger did what. He knew the theory of ‘winding it up’: the thumb provided leverage, the forefinger pushed up, against the pocket lining, then was used with the middle finger to pinch the cash. But for the life of him he could not repeat that without messing something up. So for now his job was to watch. Which he tried his best to do.</p><p>It was just about the time when everyone was leaving work, and Hunter waded through the crowds downtown filling his pockets without anyone ever turning their heads. Ocher was supposed to recognize the moves Hunter showed him back at the apartment but instead it was like watching a magician at work, which meant that most of the time Ocher didn’t even know what just happened. But as always, he was really impressed. Each time they boarded a tram or a bus, Hunter got out with a shopping bag or a wallet. He often told Ocher that the key to it all was the dark sunglasses, because when you wore them, people didn’t know where you were looking, and what you were thinking about — according to Hunter those were also the key to playing poker — but Ocher didn’t quite buy it.</p><p>
  
</p><p>Sunglasses could be a part of it, but Two Bits was just really, really good. He didn’t even finish elementary school, from what Ocher knew, but that only gave him more time to become great at something practical, which in Hunter’s case, was thieving. Hunter could probably lead a high life of a minor street king, so it was a wonder that aside from owning the apartment, he lived like a hobo and was looked down on by all the other thieves.</p><p>It all came down to poor money management. Ocher just hoped that Hunter would at least have enough common sense to always pay his dues and not get branded again. It was suspense-riddled last minute scrambling for money with him each single time.</p><p>“Okay, I think that’s enough for today,” Hunter said, as they sat on a bench in a small park with a whole bag of groceries and various items Hunter had acquired during their venture. Hunter moved his sunglasses up into his hair to scrutinize the items better. “Do you want any of these? The socks look nice.” He presented the bag’s contents to Ocher.</p><p>Ocher contemplated the socks. They did look nice. Seemed warm and cosy, probably perfect for autumn or just walking around the apartment without slippers. “Sure, I’ll have these.”</p><p>They spent a while in the park like that. It was pleasant to sit outside. On a sunny day like today with their dues paid and a bag of free stuff to browse, a thief’s life seemed almost carefree and something he could get used to. But that kind of outlook would be tunnel vision. The picture was a dangerous delusion. He had to remember about that, and aim to find his way out of this situation.</p><p>Hunter patted him on the back and assured him that he was a diligent apprentice — of course not in those words, because Hunter never learned those kind of words — and that he would teach him everything. And while Hunter reminded Ocher about going back to university every now and then, Ocher felt that Hunter wouldn’t mind if instead he stayed with their little gang forever. </p><p>The scraggy thief was sitting beside him, smiling as he pulled a Rubik’s Cube out of the bag marvelling at it with squinted eyes. He was blissfully unaware that in Ocher’s mind he’d long been made into a small shoulder devil that was trying to lead him astray. Hamsi on the other hand had been handed a role of his shoulder angel, trying to get him back on the right track. Ocher was kind of glad his shoulder devil and angel never met. While he slipped and mentioned the sisters to Hunter at some point, he would never ever tell his university friend about his criminal activities. Not because he was afraid she would tell the police, but because he would never hear the end of it from her and Abhilasha.</p><p>Ocher stared into space for a moment. He couldn’t end up like Hunter, a sad pushover criminal for life with no further aspirations. But currently he needed that extra money. It was only temporary. Half a year more and he’d be done with this. He fully intended to follow the voice of reason in the end, graduate and find a well paid job in his area of expertise like Hamsi did. Hamsi… Ocher looked at his cheap watch and cursed. He was actually almost late already. He got up from the bench.</p><p>“Uh, sorry Hunter, but I gotta get going.” </p><p>“Where are you going?”</p><p>“Places… I’m meeting some other friends.”</p><p>“Oh, okay… see you later Ocher!” Hunter sounded a little sad to see him go. Or maybe to hear that he had other friends and a life outside of this, though the latter wasn’t exactly true at the moment. “Remember we’re doing a thing with others next Friday.”</p><p>“Right. I’ll be there.”</p><p>“And you forgot your mayo from my place, man. But I guess there’s no hurry….”</p><p>“Yeah, I’ll pick it up next time. See you Hunter! And thanks for the lessons and the socks and stuff. We’ll be in touch.”</p><p class="has-text-align-center">⚞☆⚟</p><p>Luke trudged through the dark, habitually listening for the sound of footsteps and glancing toward the main street that he was walking parallel to. The sounds and lights of the busy street reached him, but not the wishes of the hurrying passersby. As long as he stayed vigilant, matters were going to stay that way. At least for a while. At least until the Citizens decided they needed him again.</p><p>Luke shuddered, both with foreboding and cold. He was hungry. Hopefully one of the dumpsters nearby could provide unwanted produce that wasn’t too spoiled. Even when he had a little cash on him, Luke usually found he couldn’t muster the courage to approach a street vendor, let alone a shop. His meals were very opportunistic and irregular as a result.</p><p>His stomach growled over the sound of the cars on the next street. But his destination was in sight. The dumpster next to the pizza restaurant stood closed with pizza boxes stacked neatly on top. Someone had been there before him. Luke’s step sped up without him realizing it. He tried hard to make his mind blank and not wish to find leftovers. He would just see. He had no wishes, no desires, no goals. Having those could kill him.</p><p>Luke anxiously gripped the first box. Too light, empty. He set it aside, and the next one, the third had a little something in it, judging by the rustling. Luke opened the box to find a piece of lukewarm pizza, tidy and untouched. He gave it a whiff, bit a piece off, decided it was safe to eat and gobbled it up. It was one of those funny ones with fruit in it. But he didn’t mind in the slightest.</p><p>The next box had a whole pizza in perfect condition. It had anchovies on it – possibly this was the reason it was left untouched by the person who pulled it out of the dumpster. Luke said his thanks to the heavens and began eating, all the while glancing cautiously to each side. As much as he would have appreciated it, he had to avoid company.</p><p>Ten minutes of vigorous chewing later Luke set to folding and wrapping up the remainder of the anchovy pizza in clean napkins. This could keep him well-fed for the rest of the night. He glanced again towards the main street. The sidewalk was maybe ten feet away, a little too close, but what could he do – this was where the dumpster stood. At least there were fewer people now that the rush hour was done. Luke found his eyes drifting over the neon signs and towards a large window filled with TV sets on the other side of the street. He tried to ignore those, but a familiar face caught his eye. He recognized the woman speaking to the reporter on TV, but he couldn’t tell from where. She looked sad and tired and spoke with emotion, but Luke had no idea about what until his face appeared on all the TV screens at once.</p><p>Luke dropped the wrapped pizza.</p><p>The image on the screens changed. Another photo of him, but this time the blond stubble was replaced by a lush intricately trimmed beard. </p><p>No. It wasn’t him. It was David Mance. And the woman was David Mance’s wife.</p><p>Luke’s blood ran cold as “have you seen this man?” appeared in capital letters on every screen. And then a promised reward of one million dollars for his safe return.</p><p>Luke stared at the screens in growing horror. The Mances were still looking for him. Worse even, they were looking for him nationwide. With a million dollar reward on his head he could have private investigators or maybe even bounty hunters looking for him now, not just criminals. And while finding him could fulfill their goals before they had a chance to come too close, their subsequent desire to bring him home to his family and receive the generous reward was bound to cause massive destruction.</p><p>In a panic, Luke snatched the fallen bundle of pizza, and forgetting all about his plan to tidy up the pizza boxes before leaving, he fled into the dark bystreets. Behind his back eight desperate Mrs Mances silently pleaded the world for the safe return of their husband.</p><p class="has-text-align-center">⚞⚿⚟</p><p>“Mm, delicious.” Wyatt praised as he gorged on what was the first decent homemade meal he’d eaten since he visited the Rathi sisters some month back. Silence was dangerous, so he filled it with some words instantly, despite his mouth still being full of butter chicken. “These shpices are sho shpot on. Didsh you bring them from your trip back home? How’sh the family in India?”</p><p>“Thanks! As a matter of fact, I did. And the family is doing splendidly.” Hamsi smiled to him. At the same time though, she scrutinized Wyatt through her thick-rimmed glasses like through a magnifying glass. “How are your parents? Still in the dark about your… situation?”</p><p>“Yeah, still… trust me, they’re better off that way. Once I pick up studies, soon, they won’t even have to know. And they’re okay. The usual, you know. They’re always asking me how you two are doing.” He knew where this prelude was headed, and he wished coming here didn’t have to always go hand in hand with a veiled scolding session. But it was bound to, because Hamsi was one of the few people in this world who actually cared about him. He was grateful for that. Still, he tried to delay the inevitable. “So tell me more about the trip. How did you spend your time there?” Her and Abhilasha visited home every year, but it was still worth asking. “How did you survive the flight? It’s like sixteen hours, right? Can’t imagine being on a plane for so long.”</p><p></p><div class="wp-block-columns">
  <p></p>
  <div class="wp-block-column">
    <p><br/>Hamsi by <a href="https://twitter.com/iisjah">Iisjah</a></p>
  </div>
  <div class="wp-block-column">
    <p><br/>Abhilasha by <a href="https://twitter.com/iisjah">Iisjah</a></p>
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</div><p>“It’s not just one plane, you get to stretch your legs. But I mostly slept. Abhi was reading. We traveled across the country, visited our distant cousins. Lots of big family dinners, that kind of thing.” Hamsi shrugged. “Oh, and I got you this.” She picked a small colorful package from a shelf nearby. Wyatt hadn’t even noticed it was there. The shelves in the sisters’ spacious apartment were cluttered with all sorts of fancy little trinkets and ornaments from India so it blended right in. Hamsi rested the small box in front of Wyatt. “I hope you still collect those.”</p><p>“Oh, thank you.” Wyatt set his now empty bowl aside – he knew Hamsi was not going to judge him for quickly scarfing down his meal while talking and not waiting for her to even start on hers — they’ve seen each other devouring food in a way less dignified manner back when they were both still students. Abhilasha meanwhile was always silently judging everything and everyone, as she was doing now, so he was used to that. People working in finance seemed to have that air about them.</p><p>He unpacked the gift, already knowing what it was going to be. He didn’t collect too many things. The hourglass was small but intricate, and clearly hand-crafted. Golden grains might have not been real sand, but they shimmered pleasantly in the electric light. He traced the ornate wooden frame with his fingers and smiled, “It’s beautiful. And I sure still do.” </p><p>“You’re welcome. I hope it inspires you. You can do it, Wyatt. You’ve got plenty of time, you can still fix things. I believe in you.” Hamsi smiled at him warmly. It was one of those radiant smiles that had once given Wyatt the courage to ask Hamsi out on a date. And then again, a few more times. In the end, they didn’t work out. But that romantic slow-motion trainwreck did nothing to unsettle their friendship.</p><p>“I know, I’m working on it. I’ve been preparing a whole lot. I’m going to apply again soon, I promise. And I’m going to pass those exams no problem this time.” Wyatt assured her. He repeated that promise over and over, when they met or talked on the phone, and he was starting to feel like he was just saying scripted lines. He wanted to mean it, to be genuine about attempting to start repairing his life and getting his education back on track. But it just eluded him. Man, when did it become this easy to promise something that wasn’t true?</p><p>Hamsi regarded him suspiciously for a moment, but clearly decided not to push it. Instead she looked down at Wyatt’s empty bowl, and then at his prominent cheekbones. “I think someone could use another helping.” She winked and picked up the bowl. “I’ll be right back.” She trotted away towards the kitchen.</p><p>Wyatt watched her go, lost in thoughts. The world was flashing a lot of red flags at him lately, like Hunter showing up on his doorstep, or his parents asking when they could come over, and if he could give them a tour around his workplace, or those monitoring systems starting to become more and more widespread across the city. He found it all mildly distressing and appreciated the potentially devastating consequences. And then proceeded to continue doing absolutely nothing about it.</p><p>He forgot that he wasn’t alone in the room. When he looked up, Abhilasha was piercing him with her dark, scolding eyes. </p><p>“She’s trying to coddle you, but I will not.” She said, her finely chiseled lips barely moving. “You cannot keep running from your responsibilities forever, Wyatt. It’s high time you woke up and got some things done.”</p><p>The rest of the meeting had gone without a hitch. After Hamsi came back, Abhilasha laid off his case, and he got to enjoy another meal and then swap some stories with the sisters. As much as he dreaded these meetings for the more or less gentle reminders that they carried, he usually emerged from them well fed and reinvigorated. Hamsi was always cheering him on, and even her older sister, despite her attitude, seemed to think he could still achieve something in his life, if only he put himself to it.</p><p>As he was walking back home, he heard a commotion in one of the bystreets. Never the courageous type, he sped up to quickly pass the exit to the alley, but morbid curiosity got the best of him, and he hastily glanced sideways as he trotted by. It was not a sight he expected. Two ladies were kicking a burly man, who was down on the asphalt in a leftover rain puddle. As soon as he was out of their view, Wyatt’s trot turned into a run.</p><p>He returned home late again, still fairly disturbed by what he’d seen, but definitely not planning to call the police, now or ever. He supposed that mugging would not make it to the crime column as well, because what manly guy was going to admit that he got beaten up by some ladies? Wyatt kicked off his shoes and passed all across the narrow apartment, reaching his bedroom, where he deposited his gift onto the nightstand, adding it to the collection of several other stolen, bought and gifted hourglasses. It was a weird thing to collect, he knew. Yet somehow it reassured him. Hamsi told him that he had time, but he always felt that he needed more of it and here it was, a lot of time standing right on his bedside table.</p><p>Anyway, that was still a lot less weird than his other jangling collection that rested well hidden from view in a shoebox of shame under his bed. A collection of keys was not something that he could easily explain to anyone. Especially since these were not the fancy kind of keys one could collect. Those were keys to people’s apartments and houses, cars, keys to their suitcases, to random padlocks around town, small simple keys and big ornate ones, solitary keys, bunches of keys on keychains, with and without labels, you name it. If it was a key, he probably had it in that box. As far as he could reach back with his memory, he always had stashes like that. He’d been gathering keys since childhood, but over the last few years the current stash had already grown way beyond what he could safely throw out into garbage without drawing suspicion. He’d never accumulated this many before. At this point he should probably be taking a few keys out with him each day and just dropping them in random places around town. That was a good idea but he never remembered to do it, so he just ended up bringing some more every month. Others in their little thief gang made fun of his very selective form of kleptomania. But to be honest, they laughed at him for a variety of reasons.</p><p>Wyatt got ready for sleep, grabbed his journal and a pen from the small desk, turned on the  lamp above the bed and collapsed onto the mattress. He decided that the key situation called for a little reminder, and that was an excellent excuse to make good on his earlier promise to himself and scribble something in the journal again.</p><p>
  <em>Friday, May 25th, 1984.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Been stuck in place for a while, but maybe it’s time to start searching for a way to get things done. Remember about the keys.</em>
</p><p>Yeah, that was probably good enough for the first entry in a long while and neutral enough not to worry in case someone read it. He sighed and shut the journal. </p><p>Days like this when he had a talk with both his shoulder devil and his shoulder angel left him really confused. If he wasn’t afraid that the journal could once be used against him, he would have long noted down that it’s funny that both their names started with an ‘H’. Hunter got the upper hand today with the thieving lessons, so Wyatt decided to bring things back into balance and reached for one of the textbooks lying on the floor next to the bed. He didn’t steal or buy these. He had to return them to the library very soon, because he wasn’t anywhere close to finishing any, but he couldn’t extend the due dates anymore. Of course, he would borrow them all again right after, because academic geology was not a very popular subject among the public library patrons.</p><p>Most of these books were from five years back or older. The ones he was supposed to read back then during his academic course. He had one new book about advances in petroleum geochemistry gifted to him by Hamsi for his birthday in April, but one of its authors shared a surname with him and that successfully discouraged Wyatt from ever wanting to open it. And so he studied another book. He read about organic and inorganic features of oil and gas reservoirs for a while, then skimmed through methods of oil dating and geochemical properties of oilfield waters. Carbon in sedimentary rocks was known to undergo isotopic fractionation with the heavy isotope C13 and the light isotope C12. Good for them. Dispersed organic rock matter could be categorized into insoluble and soluble in organic solvents the likes of chloroform, benzene, alcohol, and some others and the part that dissolved was called bitumen while the other one was kerogen. Yeah, nice, he even knew that already. Wyatt read up to the products of a temperature programmed pyrolysis, yawned, and called it a day. Almost seven pages, not so bad.</p><p>He turned off the lamp, then reached out and turned the new hourglass over, curling up, as he watched the trickling sand in the near-darkness of the ambient streetlight filtering in through the shabby curtains. When the grains stopped flowing, he flipped the hourglass again and kept on watching. It always soothed him for some reason.</p><p>As sleep overtook him, one last thought flashed in his mind. All in all, both the sisters and Hunter were right. He had to pull himself together, and until then, he had to be way more careful, and make sure he wouldn’t put his hand into the wrong pocket.</p><hr class="wp-block-separator"/><p class="has-text-align-center"><em>And here’s a song about the city!</em><br/><br/><a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8TToLgW7zuc"><strong>Glenn Frey – You Belong To The City</strong></a> <br/><br/><em>The sun goes down the night rolls in<br/>You can feel it starting all over again<br/>The moon comes up and the music calls<br/>You’re getting tired of staring at the same four walls</em></p><p class="has-text-align-center">
  <em>You’re out of your room and down on the street<br/>You can feel the crowds in the midnight heat<br/>The traffic roars the sirens scream<br/>Look at the faces it’s just like a dream</em>
</p><p class="has-text-align-center">
  <em>Nobody knows where you’re going<br/>Nobody cares where you’ve been’</em>
</p><p class="has-text-align-center"><em>Cause you belong to the city<br/>You belong to the night<br/>Living in a river of darkness<br/>Beneath the neon ligh</em>t</p><p class="has-text-align-center">
  <em>You were born in the city<br/>Concrete under your feet<br/>It’s in your moves, it’s in your blood<br/>You’re a man of the street</em>
</p><p class="has-text-align-center">
  <em>When you said goodbye you were on the run<br/>Tryin’ to get away from the things you’d done<br/>Now you’re back again and you’re feeling strange<br/>So much has happened but nothing has changed</em>
</p><p class="has-text-align-center">
  <em>Still don’t know where you’re going<br/>You’re still just a face in the crowd</em>
</p><p class="has-text-align-center"><em>You belong to the city<br/>You belong to the night<br/>Living in a river of darkness<br/>Beneath the neon ligh</em>t</p><p class="has-text-align-center">
  <em>You were born in the city<br/>Concrete under your feet<br/>It’s in your blood, it’s in your moves<br/>For a man of the streets</em>
</p><p class="has-text-align-center">
  <em>You can feel it<br/>You can taste it<br/>You can see it<br/>You can face it<br/>You can hear it<br/>You’re getting near it<br/>You’re wanna make it<br/>‘Cause you can take it</em>
</p><p class="has-text-align-center">
  <em>You belong to the city<br/>You belong to the night<br/>You belong to the city<br/>You belong to the night<br/>You belong<br/>You belong</em>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Wrong Address?</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p class="has-text-align-center">⚞⚿⚟</p><p class="has-text-align-center">(<a href="https://youtubeloop.net/watch?v=phGZO4oP5MI">Music&gt;&gt;</a>)</p><p>A dog barked just once, many rooms away.</p><p>Wyatt’s eyes shot wide open as he turned around in the darkness. It felt like waking up in the middle of the night, and it sure enough was the middle of the night, only he wasn’t in his bed. He was standing, fully clothed, in a dark room, that most definitely wasn’t his either, because it was as spacious as his entire apartment. His calm heart skipped a beat and began to race. Did he somehow fall asleep while burgling someone’s house? No, the heist wasn’t until next Friday. Unless it <em>was </em>next Friday already. No, it couldn’t be. And there wouldn’t be a dog there for sure… Shit, there was a dog here. He had to be real quiet. The thief took a deep breath, trying not to panic.</p><p>He looked around, attempting to make out his surroundings in the faint glow from the window.</p><p>There was a large executive desk before him. On its surface sat a lamp, some scattered papers and a photo frame. He squinted at the photograph, there seemed to be two people in it, but he couldn’t make out anything beyond that. The walls of the room were lined with bookcases. A few paintings hung in the empty spaces between them, but all the details drowned in the shadows.</p><p>Wyatt shakily walked over to the window and immediately understood that he’d been wrong. This… wasn’t a house. The window opened up to a splendid view of the city. It was a view from a hill. One that only a filthy rich person could afford. He was inside a mansion. This wasn’t good. How did he get in here? He used to have a sleepwalking problem once, but that was long, long ago. This wasn’t his part of the city, could a sleepwalker even go that far? He didn’t think so, but what else could it be? Or maybe… maybe he was still dreaming? He pinched himself, but that did nothing to wake him. He had to get out of here.</p><p>There seemed to be nobody outside. The paved path over a perfectly cut lawn was empty, but the few bushes and flower patches it wound around provided little cover. He was on the second floor. If only he managed to get down, there was perhaps a hundred feet to the fence, and then he’d be out of here. It was only when Wyatt was about to open the window that he realized he was holding something in his clenched fist. With a feeling of dread he opened his fingers and looked at the small key sitting in his palm.</p><p>Great. So it was both sleepwalking <em>and</em> key kleptomania…</p><p>Heavy footsteps thudded from inside the house, and the door to the study slammed open. Wyatt dropped the key. It fell down to the floor with a metallic cling, but he was already too busy trying to climb out the window to care. The lights went on.</p><p>“Freeze!”</p><p>He looked back. Three stocky men in suits had guns pointed right at him, so he did, terrified.</p><p>“Drop your weapons.”</p><p>“I-I don’t have any!” he squealed.</p><p>He hardly managed to finish stuttering before they grabbed him. Two of them pulled him away from the window sill he was clutching onto, but it wasn’t until the third one pressed the barrel of a gun to his forehead that Wyatt really felt the horror sinking in.</p><p>“W-wait,” he tried to explain, “it’s not what you think it is, I’m not trying to steal-”</p><p>“Shut it and no funny business. Search him,” the guy with the gun instructed the others.</p><p>Wyatt held perfectly still as one of the men checked him for hidden weapons and ransacked all of his pockets, tossing their contents to the floor. He watched it like in a real dream, unsure what he would even see.</p><p>Chewing gum, keys to his own apartment, change…</p><p>“Looks like he’s clean,” one guy said.</p><p>Another frowned at the floor. He bowed down to pick up the little fallen key. Oh <em>come on</em>…</p><p>“This is from here, ain’t it?” the man asked one of the other suits.</p><p>Another guy shrugged back at him.</p><p>“Any documents?”</p><p>“Nope.”</p><p>“T-this is just a misunderstanding,” Wyatt tried again. ”There’s no need to call the police…” God, if they called the police, he would be so screwed. If he was arrested, his life would be over. His family would hear about it, and they would find out he’d been lying to them. His university would never accept him back, the gas station owner would fire him, he would go to jail, and if he ever got out, he would never find another decent job again. This was horrible, the worst that could possibly happen.</p><p>They didn’t seem to listen to his plea, but also nobody told him to shut up again.</p><p>“Strip him, check for wires.”</p><p>What? Why wires? Where was he, what kind of security guards <em>were </em>these? “Please… Just let me go and you’ll never see me again. I must have got the wrong address…”</p><p>“Wrong address?” the man holding Wyatt laughed. “Oh, this is rich.”</p><p>As one of the men began to tug off his jacket, the thief’s eyes wandered around helplessly and anchored on the photo on the desk. He could see it now. A dark-skinned child with an afro grinning happily in the arms of a sharply dressed smiling white man. The child was unfamiliar to him, but he knew exactly who the man was. He’d seen that face countless times in newspapers and on TV. This was Hector Viteri’s mansion. </p><p>Of all the possible places in New Coalport he had to <em>sleepwalk-burgle </em>this one… Oh man.</p><p>“Please,” he tried again as the guards left him in his socks and briefs only, checking his shoes for who knows what. “I didn’t mean to bother Mr. Viteri, I’m so terribly sorry, can we just talk this over?” It didn’t add up. Why would the local businessman superstar be checking intruders for hidden bugs? Was he afraid of industrial espionage by some other… rival businessmen? Or maybe he struggled with intrusive journalists or paparazzi? Yeah, probably. Wyatt calmed down a little. “I didn’t mean to steal anything, please let me explain…”</p><p>“You won’t be talking to us. We’re not paid to talk. Dress.”</p><p>One of the men left and returned a moment later. He waved the little key. “Like I thought, this one’s from here, it fits the boss’ bedside table.” </p><p>They shoved his shirt and trousers back into his hands. Unlike the rest of his clothes, his jacket and shoes were not returned when the search was over. One of the men held onto them, while Wyatt shakily pulled his trousers and t-shirt back on.</p><p>“Looks like there’s no wires. Let’s take him to the boss.”</p><p>The last thing Wyatt saw was one of the men pulling a hood over his head. His hands were cuffed behind his back.</p><p>All of that did nothing to silence him, though.</p><p>“Guys, is this really necessary? I-I <em>swear</em> I wasn’t going to take anything. I… I’m actually a huge fan, I just wanted an autograph, but Mr Viteri is so hard to get close to during the day, I just somehow thought this would be a good idea, pretty stupid I know, but it seemed like a decent one at the time at least, I’m so sorry…” He blabbered whatever came to mind. Hector Vitteri was a nice guy; who wouldn’t be a fan of someone who built schools and hospitals, cut red tapes  and funded charities? Though, for a man of such high moral standards and etiquette, his security personnel was strangely unrefined… Almost like thugs in suits. Why would they put this thing on his head when he was already here anyway? They didn’t want him to see the layout? What was this, like a secret lair? “Please, let’s not bother Mr Viteri, all I wanted was that autograph, but it’s really not a big deal if he’s busy right now as well…”</p><p>“An autograph? From the man? And you climbed into his bedroom to get it? Priceless! What would you even have him put there, ‘from the man to my fan’?” The guard laughed at his own joke. </p><p>He was the only one laughing.</p><p>There was a pause. Then the same voice asked, hesitantly, “Fuck, guys, did I just say too much?”</p><p>Wyatt didn’t understand at first. And then his heart stopped. What did the guard just call Hector Viteri…? He must have heard it wrong. Two times in a row. It was probably a sign he was spending too much time stealing things and too little time studying geology. Wait, no, he didn’t mishear it, the guy must have simply meant ‘the man’ as in an important guy, or like in a male human person or something, yeah, that had to be one of those. Wyatt calmed himself down, but the man leading him apparently didn’t reach the same peace of mind, because he suddenly froze.</p><p>“Guys, seriously, did I? I mean, do we need to kill him now?”</p><p>They all stopped.</p><p>“For fuck’s sake, Barney.”</p><p>“What?”</p><p>A loud sigh.</p><p>“Now that you rubbed it in like that, who knows. The boss will decide. Don’t make things even worse and just shut up. It’s hard to believe you still have this job. No fucking subtlety.”</p><p>They started walking again.</p><p>Wyatt felt dizzy. He must have been dreaming after all. It was just a nightmare. It had to be. He hadn’t sleepwalked since he was what, ten? Why would he suddenly start now? And only to discover that Hector Viteri, a known philanthropist, was actually the Man, the most wanted criminal in the state? And they just told him that he climbed into the guy’s bedroom. Of course it was a dream. He was going to wake up any minute now. But even in his sleep he still didn’t feel comfortable with the idea of dying. Suddenly calling the police didn’t seem bad at all, but he felt that option was already off the table.</p><p>“I-I’m not sure what you mean, but I really want that autograph from Mr Viteri,” he informed them in a thin voice from inside the hood, consistently playing stupid, “Please don’t kill me? Not before I get it at least. I need to have it. But please don’t kill me after that either. Anyway, you’re kidding right?”</p><p>“We have the trespasser, boss. He’s clean, well kind of clean, he had the key to your bedside table. Says he came for an autograph. But we have a problem. One of us might have said too much.”</p><p>A deep voice came rumbling through the mild static. “How unfortunate. Bring him to the basement then. I want the guilty party to join the men searching the vicinity.”</p><p>“Understood.”</p><p>“B-basement?” Wyatt nearly choked on that word. No, this was obviously too surreal. Hector Viteri couldn’t be the Man. He didn’t just say ‘bring him to the basement’ in a scary crime boss voice. It didn’t make sense. His life wasn’t a movie. He chuckled hysterically, this was actually almost funny. “Sorry, but I got to ask — am I dreaming?”</p><p>The men fell silent for a second, then exchanged snorts. “Yeah, it’s a dream alright. And thanks to Barney here, it’s going to be over soon. For you, that is. But for us it’s going to be one hell of a night, getting rid of a body.”</p><p>“Why us? Isn’t that what the dogs are for? Oh, wait, right, they’re still eating the previous guy.”</p><p>Wyatt squealed. He’s heard the urban legend about the man-eating dogs, it was one of those things Hunter and others spooked him with for fun when he’d first joined them.</p><p>“Shut up, Barney, really. Don’t you see he can barely walk as is? You shouldn’t even be here. Go already.”</p><p>Suddenly the floor ended. Wyatt began falling, proving the guy’s earlier statement true. Then someone caught him. “Right… he can’t see shit. Fine, I’m leaving, you handle him.”</p><p>The man called Barney left.</p><p>“There’s stairs,” one of the two remaining guys informed Wyatt helpfully.</p><p class="has-text-align-center">* * *<br/>(<a href="https://youtubeloop.net/watch?v=5Smzkuze0QM">Music&gt;&gt;</a>)</p><p>The trip down to the ground floor and then down again was a nightmare-like sequence. The steps seemed to never end and he fumbled down them, prodded by his captors. Something one of them advised about begging the Man for mercy and a quick bullet to the head didn’t console Wyatt in the slightest. When he tried asking questions, they told him to shut up. He stubbornly wished it to be a dream, but all his senses screamed that it was a harsh, murderous reality. At the end of the way down his handcuffs and hood were removed, and he was all but thrown into the basement he’d been promised.</p><p>He landed on a rough concrete floor, hurting his knee. Bright light shone directly at him from the opposite wall and he had to squint to see anything. There were no windows here. The walls and ceiling were concrete like the floor. He looked down, but when his eyes darted towards the rust colored stains and drain grill in the center of the floor, he looked up again in sheer horror.</p><p>And that’s when he saw him.</p><p>A man was sitting in a chair by the lamp with two large Dobermans at his side.</p><p>Wyatt could not make out his face against the light, but he already knew who he was. Hector Viteri, one of the richest men in New Coalport. And as he had the misfortune of just finding out, also <em>the Man</em>, and the unarguable master of the city’s underworld. Wyatt shuddered as he heard the door shut behind him, but instead of looking back he stared at the Man and his Dobermans like a deer caught in headlights. The thudding roar of his own heartbeat almost drowned out the quiet snarling of dogs.</p><p>The Man was smoking a cigar. The smell of tobacco smoke in the small windowless room was at least as intrusive as the bright light.</p><p>Wyatt knew he had to speak up as soon as possible and fight to get out alive, but no words came when he opened his mouth. He didn’t even have the guts to try to get up from the floor. </p><p>One thought only got stuck on repeat in his mind. </p><p>Oh god, he really <em>was </em>going to die. </p><p>“So you claim you wanted an autograph.” The Man said calmly. “Was there no easier way to go about it?”</p><p>Wyatt finally turned his head away from the light. He was terrified. He knew he had to answer but pure, smothering fear finally got to him, clawing at his throat, lungs and stomach. That was some really bad timing. If he didn’t come up with something to say, he was going to die right here, right now, in this basement. He was probably going to die here anyway even if he did manage to say something. Just a few minutes ago, he didn’t even know where he was. Now it looked like he knew too much to live. The police and the FBI would kill to have the info he just stumbled on. Did they even suspect that the man they were looking for all these years was hiding in plain sight, right under their noses, building the schools their children attended and throwing fundraisers?</p><p>Did anyone who ever found out what he just had even survive? Did members of the Citizens even know this? Surely just the select few, but it didn’t matter now. The Man was waiting and he had to think fast and focus or he was going to take this revelation to his grave.</p><p>“T-there would be an easier way, if I only wanted an autograph from Hector Viteri…” he choked out at last, struggling to form some sort of credible line of defense for this audacious statement. He lied to his friends and parents for the last three years of his life. Why not lie to the Man as well?</p><p>“So you’re telling me my men didn’t say too much after all? You knew this all along?” The man sounded amused. He took a drag on his cigar. The dogs fell quiet by now. Their master’s deep, scary voice seemed to soothe them.</p><p>Despite his wild pulse, and the feeling he was rapidly drowning, Wyatt grit his teeth and tried to calm down. It was just another lie, he could do this, he did it all the time. “Y-yes. That’s why I came here.” He tried to come across as confident, but the stutter wouldn’t go away. Suddenly he understood why they were checking him for wires, and searching the ‘vicinity’. “I-I’m not with the police, secret intelligence or a-anything like that. I came here alone, it was my own stupid idea. I’m one of your thieves. I go by ‘Ocher’, and always pay my dues on time. My fence at 68 Jasmine street can confirm all that. I-I know I gambled with my life coming here but… Mr. Viteri, you’ve always been an <em>inspiration.</em> I admire <em>both </em>of your personas, and I-I just… just always wanted to see you like this, not a businessman but <em>the Man</em>… to be with you face to face.” </p><p>Wyatt ran out of breath. He mustered all his courage and looked up at the Man, squinting through the bright light. He tried to look awestruck, instead of scared. Not a victim but a true fan.</p><p>The Man turned the lamp away, illuminating the wall behind him and bathing the rest of the room in a duller reflected light. Wyatt could finally see him properly. Hector Viteri was the same in this nightmare basement as he was on the covers of newspapers and magazines: tall, muscular and incredibly photogenic. The million dollar smile, however, was missing and without it, Viteri’s small deep set glinting eyes gave him a feral look. The man looked like he could easily break Wyatt’s spine with bare hands. Maybe he intended to, judging by how he only wore an undershirt and slacks instead of a full power suit he usually appeared in.</p><p>Wyatt felt all his staged bravery seep away instantly. It was hard to control the shaking. Something about Hector’s face had always disturbed him. Now he knew the general impression was justified. The man the whole city loved, turned out to be the man the whole city feared. A man who left no witnesses, and as the rumour in the criminal world had it and as his guards had just confirmed, fed his dogs with human flesh. Wyatt felt his stomach turn and knot. He knew his life hadn’t been going too well, but he really didn’t want to go as far as becoming dog food.</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  
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</p><p>As if sensing that fear, the Dobermans left their places and slowly started circling Wyatt. They did not growl anymore, just skulked like shadows at the edge of his vision, before passing between him and their master. Wyatt looked left and right, trying to see where they went. Suddenly all he could think about were those bloody stains on the floor and being eaten alive.</p><p>Viteri leaned forward in the chair, studying the thief. “So, Ocher… What betrayed me?” </p><p>Wyatt’s eyes fixed back on the alpha predator. He felt really small under his gaze. The panic was back and his eyes grew wide. Cold sweat was rolling down his back. He lied to the Man, bet it all on one card like an idiot, and now he had to roll with it. </p><p>“N-nothing did. That part was really just my crazy hunch, a lucky guess until I got to confirm it tonight… one day I was just thinking to myself that Hector Viteri is such a great man, probably the greatest man in New Coalport, deeply affecting the city. A-and then it just clicked. The idea haunted me… ever since. I wasn’t totally sure, I <em>needed</em> to know, had to check no matter how crazy it seemed… I wanted to meet you so badly. I-I was ready to risk arrest… or worse! But I was right, sir…” He kept looking at Hector, as he blabbered on, simply because something in the man’s small spooky eyes made him unable to look away. “I-I am absolutely honoured to be here… I-I mean… to know this for sure, to be talking to you! The head of the Citizens… it’s just so perfect. I never imagined… It’s like a dream come true and I… I just made one horrible mistake…”</p><p>“And what would that be?”</p><p>“I-I didn’t prepare a speech…” the thief admitted, shakily, trying to justify his pathetic blather. “And now I am completely overwhelmed, seeing you in person, sir, a-and I’m all s-stuttering and nervous, making a fool of myself. But I just wanted you to know… that I’m your biggest fan.”</p><p>“My biggest fan?” Viteri puffed out a cloud of vicious smoke. </p><p>The question hung in the air, clouded in smoke like a sky-high apotheosis of this multilayered implausible lie. This was it. There was no way Viteri would believe him. Ocher’s blood ran cold, he could swear the Dobermans were preparing to lunge, and that the Man was going to let them.</p><p>
  <em>  </em>
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  <em>Art by <a href="https://paperwick.tumblr.com/">Paperwick</a></em>
</p><p>Viteri remained silent for a longer moment, studying Wyatt.</p><p>“Is that why you climbed into my bedroom window? Where did you want that autograph exactly?” The Man said finally, smirking.</p><p>The thief stared at him in mild shock. It was the second time tonight he heard this. That he climbed into Hector Viteri’s bedroom first. Really? How? Why? He didn’t remember. And he couldn’t afford to ask. Something told him that going back on his lie and telling Hector that actually no, he just randomly sleepwalked all the way here and all of this was simply a bizarre misunderstanding, was not a good idea.</p><p>“I… I didn’t exactly think this through,” Wyatt looked away, a bit lost. “I-I thought maybe you’d have a preference.”</p><p>The silence stretched out painfully long, and it became obvious that his lies weren’t coming together. He screwed up, and he was about to die. He could almost see his whole life starting to flash before his eyes.</p><p>And then the Man spoke.</p><p>“I also thought I had a preference.” There was another momentary silence. “Now I’m not so sure.”</p><p>When Wyatt gathered the courage to raise his eyes, he saw the Man looking at him in a whole new way.</p><p>
  
  <br/>
  <em>Art by <a href="https://paperwick.tumblr.com/">Paperwick</a></em>
</p><p>“Phobos, Deimos, sit,” Viteri said. The dogs returned to their places at the sides of his chair. The Man tilted his head studying Wyatt’s kneeling form. “Let’s say I am interested, Ocher. Are you generally into men? Or should I feel special?”</p><p>Wyatt gaped at him in shock. He never intended for any part of his pleading for mercy to come off <em>that</em> way. What Hector just seemed to have assumed was the misinterpretation of the century. “N-no…” he bit his tongue, suddenly realizing that the Man might have actually considered that a valid explanation. Yep, it sure looked like that was exactly the case. Denying it was probably the most idiotic thing he could do right now. “That is… you <em>are</em> special, sir… I… I’ve just never… not yet, at least. I mean, so far I haven’t… i-it was just a fantasy of mine…” Oh god, what a horrible night…</p><p>“Well-well, we may catch up on that yet. What is your real name, Ocher?” Hector smiled. Amusement was playing in his features now. It was a good sign. Hopefully.</p><p>The thief shut his eyes. He wished he could lie about his name too. He knew he couldn’t. “W-wyatt. Wyatt Brooks,” he said, feeling like he’d just sold his soul to the devil.</p><p>“If you admire me, Wyatt, you know what I do to people, who try to get in my way. What you heard and saw tonight will stay in here only.” Hector leaned forward and touched Wyatt’s forehead with his index finger. “If you try to sell me out, there will be hell to pay. For all your friends, your family, and you. In that order. Can I trust your common sense?” Viteri asked.</p><p>The thief didn’t trust either his common sense or his voice, but he really wanted Hector to trust everything about him, so he nodded quite zealously.</p><p>“Good.” Hector stood up and offered him a hand.</p><p>Wyatt blinked at it without understanding.</p><p>“Up, Mr Brooks. I don’t have a pen with me here.”</p><p>When the thief complied, Hector effortlessly pulled him up. He lifted Wyatt’s face by the chin and looked into his scared amber eyes. “You are quite cute,” he said and took his hand away.</p><p>The thief felt his stomach make a nauseating lurch at the compliment spoken in a deep, terrifying voice and the gentle touch on his face. He thought he was going to faint, but he didn’t. Instead he felt his knees were shaking.</p><p>Hector tilted his head noticing that as well. “Don’t worry, I know I have this effect on people,” he said. “Now, let’s go see about that autograph, darling.”</p><p class="has-text-align-center">* * *</p><p>The car drove quietly through the streets washed in turns by the white lights of old mercury vapor street lamps and the orange warm glow of new sodium ones. Shadows flicked across Wyatt’s face, but he didn’t notice. He just stared ahead, mostly unblinking, holding onto the signed polaroid photograph of Hector Viteri and him, frozen with a terrified fake grin on his face.</p><p>He didn’t pay attention to the buildings they passed. Didn’t hear the driver ask him a question the first time. Or the second time, or the third. He hardly even registered there was a driver at all.</p><p>Blood pulsed in his ears, and all he could think about was that he’d given his real name, his address and his phone number to the infamous crime lord who had originally planned to feed him to the dogs in the basement of his mansion. Wyatt wasn’t sure if the final outcome was much better. He didn’t exactly feel thrilled to still be alive. It was too surreal. A part of him still thought it was a nightmare. Detailed and weird, but definitely unreal. The sleepwalking he’d done a couple of times in childhood was the ‘walk from one end of the room to another’ kind of thing. There was no way he could have unconsciously scaled that tall fence and climbed up the wall into anyone’s window at night. He probably wouldn’t have been able to climb it even while wide awake.</p><p>Plus there was also no way in hell that Viteri and the Man could actually be the same person. This was just crazy, right? The car pulled to a stop, but Wyatt didn’t notice that either. He heard once that you couldn’t read in dreams, so he flipped the photograph over and attempted to read the inscription. “To my biggest fan”, signed, H.V. He felt a surge of panic, somewhat subdued by the realization that the car was no longer moving.</p><p>“We’ve reached your specified destination, Mr. Brooks,” the driver repeated, a hint of impatience in his voice. It scored him a panicked wide-eyed look from the passenger, who almost jumped up in his seat. </p><p>Wyatt collected himself quickly. “T-thanks. So, I can go now, right?” He would have sprung out of the car instantly, but he felt it wouldn’t hurt to ask for extra permission, even though his hand was already on the door handle.</p><p>Wyatt could see the driver’s tired, irked face in the rear view mirror. He suddenly realized the chauffeur must have been woken up in the middle of the night specifically to drive him.</p><p>“Yes, Mr. Brooks, you can go now, but if you get out here, I will have to report to Mr. Viteri that you had me pull up in front of a round-the-clock laundromat. Are you really sure this is where you live?”</p><p>Wyatt looked at him pleadingly, his hand still on the door handle, “M-mister Viteri already knows where I live. I just don’t want my neighbours to see me dropped off at night in fancy cars… that’s all.”</p><p>The driver looked skeptical, but nodded in the end. Wyatt really hoped that nod meant that he wasn’t going to tell Mr. Viteri about how his passenger had been freaking out on his way back home. He didn’t have the guts to ask and make sure. All his courage had been used up to tell the Man just how essential it was for him to have his autograph.</p><p>When he got out of the car, he immediately tripped while trying to get on the sidewalk but collected himself and walked away stiffly with his hands in the pockets of his jacket, as if nothing ever happened. Unfortunately, as soon as the car’s engine went back on, he jumped up and shot a scared look over his shoulder, which probably ruined the whole impression.</p><p>On the way back home Wyatt pondered on just how screwed he was.</p><p>He almost teared up as a conclusion.</p><p>
  
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  <em>And here’s a relevant song for this chapter :D!</em>
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  <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0j6d7VeYvdQ">
    <strong>Genesis – Home By The Sea</strong>
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  <em>Creeping up the blind side<br/>Shinning up the wall<br/>Stealing through the dark of night<br/>Climbing through a window<br/>Stepping to the floor<br/>Checking to the left and the right<br/>Picking up the pieces<br/>Putting them away<br/>Something doesn’t feel quite right</em>
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  <em>Help me someone, let me out of here<br/>Then out of the dark was suddenly heard<br/>Welcome to the home by the sea</em>
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  <em>Coming out of the woodwork<br/>Through the open door<br/>Pushing from above and below<br/>Shadows but no substance<br/>In the shape of men<br/>Round and down and sideways they go<br/>Adrift without direction<br/>Eyes that hold despair<br/>Then as one they sign and they moan</em>
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  <em>Help us someone, let us out of here<br/>Living here so long, undisturbed<br/>Dreaming of the time we were free<br/>So many years ago<br/>Before the time when we first heard<br/>Welcome to the home by the sea</em>
</p><p class="has-text-align-center">
  <em>Sit down, sit down, sit down<br/>Sit, down, sit down<br/>As we relive our lives<br/>In what we tell you</em>
</p><p class="has-text-align-center">
  <em>Images of sorrow, pictures of delight<br/>Things that go to make up a life<br/>Endless days of summer<br/>Longer nights of gloom<br/>Waiting for the morning light<br/>Scenes of unimportance<br/>Photos in a frame<br/>Things that go to make up a life</em>
</p><p class="has-text-align-center">
  <em>Help us someone, let us out of here<br/>‘Cause living here so long undisturbed<br/>Dreaming of the time we were free<br/>So many years ago<br/>Before the time when we first heard<br/>Welcome to the home by the sea</em>
</p><p class="has-text-align-center">
  <em>Let us relive our lives<br/>In what we tell you</em>
</p><p class="has-text-align-center">
  <em>Sit down, sit down, sit down<br/>‘Cause you won’t get away<br/>No, with us you will stay<br/>For the rest of your days, sit down<br/>As we relive our lives<br/>In what we tell you<br/>Let us relive our lives<br/>In what we tell you</em>
</p>
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<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Rat Trap</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p class="has-text-align-center">⚞☆⚟</p><p>Luke woke up. He felt mildly overheated, but well-rested. For the first time in days, he had managed to get a full day’s sleep without interruption. He decided to try the same alley again the next day. The stench from the seafood store next door was intense enough to keep all but the most resilient homeless away. But Luke persevered. It was hard to find a spot where he wouldn’t be disturbed like this. It was something worth returning to.</p><p>Luke stretched and put away the newspaper that was shielding his head from the sun during the day.</p><p>There was a swarthy man in a colorful poncho leaning over him.</p><p>Luke gasped and backed away, pressing his back into the brick wall. There he discovered the man wasn’t actually leaning, he was just very short. </p><p>“Please, keep away! Step back! I am a danger! I am very sick.” Luke coughed loudly into his fist. “Leave me, please! My malady is fatal and contagious.”</p><p>The small man grinned, clasped his hands together joyfully and remained firmly in place. “How beautifully said! You should be a poet. Or better yet, an actor! You’re clearly wasting away out here. I think I’d like to do something about it.” He dropped to sit down in front of Luke and pulled a small bundle out of a bag swung across his shoulder. “Sandwich?”</p><p>“No, please, you don’t understand!” Luke scrambled to his feet. He grabbed his weathered rucksack and the newspaper. The rucksack strap tore off and the newspaper slid apart, scattering the pages over the asphalt. Luke crouched, gathering the paper in a feat of panic.</p><p></p><div class="wp-block-image">
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</div><p>Meanwhile, the short man produced another wrapped sandwich and two small orange juice boxes with straws. He lined all that up on the concrete in front of Luke as the ragged, skinny man fumbled around in a panic. “Easy there, calm down, Luke. Please sit back down. I know exactly what I’m doing. You can’t hurt me. But you sure <em>can </em>offend me, which wouldn’t be the best way to begin our acquaintance.”</p><p>Luke stopped collecting the papers and stared at the small man. He dropped his rucksack. His knees grew weak, and he leaned against the wall. The man knew his name. The man knew who he was, what he could do. He came here alone, but unafraid. Cold sweat ran down Luke’s spine. He stuttered. “A-are you the Man?”</p><p>The man in the poncho arched his thick black eyebrows. Then he slapped his thighs and laughed so heartily that he had to wipe a tear from one eye. Luke saw that his hands were adorned with rings. He pointed at Luke a few times as his laughter died down to a chuckle, “Oh, Luke, you are a flatterer. I know exactly who you’re mistaking me for, but no, I’m not affiliated with that particular brand. Now, sit down, really, there’s no need to run. I promise you most sincerely that dying wasn’t and still isn’t in my plans for today. And I definitely do not intend to hurt you either.”</p><p>Luke stared at the little man for a moment, coming to terms with what his words actually meant. A friendly stranger who knew of him. Someone his curse possibly would not harm. Was it even possible? The man seemed so sure about it and so far Luke’s power really remained dormant… Luke slowly slid down the wall and dropped on his newspapers. His heart, that was previously trying to pound its way up out of his chest through his throat, sunk back in place and began to slow down. Luke bit his lips. Tears formed in the corners of his eyes. For a moment he could not speak. He wanted to say so much. He had not spoken properly to anyone for almost a year. The infrequent conversations he’d had were draped in fear and mostly consisted of instructions given by cruel criminals. The few people who had tried extending a helping hand to him usually fell victim to their own kindness, unless he ran away fast enough for the events not to trigger. And yet here was this man who knew of his curse and had the confidence and good will to offer him a meal and companionship.</p><p>“Perfect. Now, let’s try this again.” The stranger smiled to him. “Guder Daag, Luke. Did I say that right?”</p><p>Luke gasped, and tears finally ran freely down his face.</p><p>“Are you… an angel of the Lord?”</p><p>The small man laughed again and passed him some tissues. He seemed to have come well prepared. “No, Luke, while I appreciate the compliment, I’m no angel. Though there are some letters in common. You can call me El. Here, take your sandwich and juice, you can’t keep running on air and water alone.” The wide array of green and gold bracelets on El’s forearms jangled as he gestured.</p><p></p><div class="wp-block-columns">
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    <p><br/><br/>El by <a href="https://twitter.com/iisjah">Iisjah</a></p>
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    <p>After Luke accepted the tissues, El extended the rest of his gifts towards him and beamed again. Luke noticed now that some of El’s teeth were decorated with small green inserts. Odd, but hardly noteworthy considering all the things people did to their bodies these days. </p>
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</div><p>“You’re safe now, kid. I’m going to help you out, but the details can wait until after you eat and drink.” </p><p>“Thank you… thank you.” Luke used the tissues to wipe some of the muck off of his face with his tears. Then he felt he should keep the wet tissues for later and folded them carefully, hiding them in a pocket. “Bless you, El. Blessings on you and all your loved ones,” Luke said with feeling. Shakily he pierced the juice box with the straw. As he drank, he studied El through teary eyes.</p><p>All in all his benefactor looked like a vagrant too, just a slightly better dressed one. The bracelets, rings and earrings that he wore shone like gold, but doubtlessly were just plastic imitations. Luke took a break from his juice to mutter more words of gratitude.</p><p>“Sure, sure, you’ll thank me later,” the short man gestured amicably. He looked at Luke with a sort of fatherly care. “Eat, drink, and then I’ll take you somewhere, where you can wash. Just take this little thing first, and don’t part with it no matter what.” He extended a hand towards Luke and opened his fingers to reveal something resting in his palm.</p><p>Luke carefully lifted what looked like a polished black disk framed with wood and fur. It was a few inches in size, and looked like nothing Luke had seen before. There was a piece of string attached to it to form a necklace. Luke wondered what his new friend could have in mind. The offer of a chance to wash sounded too much like a trap — his belongings could be gone together with his benefactor, such things had happened before. But the odd gift occupied his mind. </p><p>“Thank you very much, El. What is this?” </p><p>“Oh, from now on, it is your most prized possession.”</p><p>“Why?”</p><p>El presented his decorated teeth in another crooked smile. “Well why indeed… Let’s say that as long as you have it, you’re just another guy again. Not too lucky, not too unlucky. Keep it around you at all times. And no worries, I’m not a walking charity, and I<em> will </em>want something from you in return, in fact I have a job offer for you. We’ll talk it over later today, but I think you won’t mind it.” </p><p>Luke studied the little talisman for a moment, then eagerly put the string around his neck and hid the fur charm deep under his layers of clothes. He held his breath and looked at El intently. Then he pulled out a penny from his pocket and focused all of his will on flipping it face up. He tossed the coin. It landed showing the face of the bearded man and the inscription “IN GOD WE TRUST”. Luke looked about himself for any falling bricks or incoming cars. The alley was quiet and peaceful. The desired outcome affixed in his mind’s eye, Luke flipped the coin again. The bearded man. Feeling anxious, he threw the coin one more time, waiting, focusing all his willpower on wanting to see the bearded man again, as much as he dreaded it.</p><p>A shield. The United States of America. </p><p>His accursed luck finally failed. He really was normal again.</p><p>Luke clutched the coin and wept with joy.</p><p class="has-text-align-center">⚞⚿⚟</p><p>Wyatt hadn’t slept at all that night. When he got home from his worst living nightmare, it was already almost time to go to work again, so he did just that.</p><p>He arrived at the gas station fifteen minutes too late anyway, and was met with a slight glower from his fatigued colleague from the night shift. Taking Brent’s place behind the cash register, Wyatt apologized with such a blank look on his face that a few rude words curled up and died on the other guy’s lips, and he asked Wyatt if he was alright.</p><p>Of course he was alright, everything was just perfectly normal and in order, never better, what a lovely Saturday.</p><p>On any other day he would have been pissed that the guy supposed to work the gas pumps didn’t show up, but today he had no feelings about it. He sold cigarettes, chewing gum, a couple magazines and several cups of coffee to the first clients and filled out a few car tanks with petrol with the same blank stare, until somebody suggested that he should also get some coffee. But who needed caffeine, when you could run on fear alone?</p><p>An hour later exhaustion finally kicked in, and Wyatt’s thoughts began swinging between normal everyday life stuff and the most morbid scenarios. At twenty past seven he was thinking that life without his car was rather hard to get used to. It might have been a clunker, but it got him places quicker than his feet or the bus did. He wished he hadn’t had to part with it but still considered himself lucky that someone actually paid money for something that belonged in a junkyard more than in a garage. He pondered — maybe he should get himself a bicycle?</p><p>Then at a quarter to eight the pump guy finally showed up, but Wyatt hardly registered that, because he was wondering how many men in suits would be waiting for him back home, or if maybe he was going to die in an unfortunate gas station explosion later today.</p><p>Around nine he fell asleep on the counter, but was jolted awake by a pair of customers and served them in a panic remembering the camera behind his back that no doubt registered him falling asleep in as much detail as the technology could allow. He didn’t even know how to tamper with the recording, so all that was left to hope for was that viewed from behind it could be mistaken for… he wasn’t even sure what it could be mistaken for. Wyatt wondered which would come first, getting fired from this pathetic job, or meeting his untimely demise at the hand of some Citizen, walking in to leave a bullet in his head.</p><p>At eleven, he reached the stage of complete peace with the world. Let all of them come, customers, Citizens, men in suits, police, the gas station owner, and all the New Coalport’s Dobermans. Maybe dying was a way out of his predicament. He wouldn’t have to worry about money, about Hector Viteri being the Man, or how to arrange his parents coming to town without the truth about his gas station job coming up.</p><p>At noon, he was pretty sure that last night didn’t even happen.</p><p>At two o’clock he shot out of the gas station almost trampling over Curtis, who came to take over the shift. His heart was thudding in his ears again, and he ran home on foot, then suddenly changed direction and ran to the public library instead.</p><p>Out of breath, he asked the librarian if they had newspapers, and when he found out where they were, he started digging through those from ten years back. Taking them home was both against the library policy and would be literally impossible, unless he filled up an entire taxi with them, so instead he spent the rest of the day in there, scanning dozens upon dozens of old issues of The New Coalporter Daily for any mentions of Hector Viteri, or the Man. How was he supposed to be the guy’s biggest fan if he knew next to nothing about him? To mislead anyone who could be following him or checking his library record in case they put those newspapers on it, he tried to borrow several geology books, but found out that he had already exceeded his maximum quota with the previous ones that were already almost overdue. He looked around in a sudden burst of exhausted paranoia, but the library was mostly empty, except for a few teenagers and two women browsing fashion magazines. </p><p>Wyatt still felt like he was in a thriller, and the walls had eyes.</p><p>He sat there until they closed for the day, which was awfully soon. How could a public library close at six in the afternoon? He’d only managed some three hours of browsing and hardly felt well versed in either of Hector Viteri’s personas.</p><p>When he got home on his last legs, he found the cursed photo, and hid it away. Pretending that this whole fateful night and the basement episode never happened put him at ease. He slept well and next morning, with no proof in sight, he managed to convince himself that it all had really been just a nightmare. All that had been simply too strange to have ever transpired, so it never did. He found that conclusion extremely relieving and liberating. As a consequence, even though he had previously resolved to do that every day, he didn’t go to the library again. He spent the entire Sunday sleeping, and on Monday he returned to his everyday routine. Come Wednesday afternoon, he had already moved on from even thinking about that strange nightmare he had. </p><p>Then on a nice and sunny Thursday afternoon, his phone rang.</p><p>“Hello?” Wyatt picked up the receiver.</p><p>“Hello, this is Hector Viteri speaking. May I speak with Mr. Wyatt Brooks, please?” the phone rumbled.</p><p>Wyatt saw his life pass in front of his eyes. He stared across the room frozen in absolute silence, and then, before it became suspicious, he mumbled. “I… y-yes, s-speaking. I’m so glad to hear you calling, Mr. Viteri. I-I didn’t even dare to hope that you would remember me.”</p><p>“How could I forget? You’ve made quite an entrance that night.” Wyatt could hear a smile in the Man’s voice. “Are you available this Saturday?”</p><p>Wyatt dropped the receiver. He did manage to catch it though, and as his heart raced, and his hands shook, he stammered, “A-available? As in… what k-kind of a-availability, sir?”</p><p>“Available to come over for lunch. Is everything alright? I hope I am not interrupting.”</p><p>“No, n-no, it’s fine… just a bit clumsy over here… sorry… I…” Wyatt really dreamed of nothing else than to not be available on Saturday, but he didn’t suppose he had a choice. “Of course I’d love to overcome lunch… I mean to come over. Saturday? S-sounds great.”</p><p>“Half past noon then?”</p><p>“Half past noon… I-I…” Wyat panicked more. “I actually finish work at two, I’m so sorry… I’ll find a way to be-”</p><p>“No need,” rumbled the receiver. “Let’s make it a very late lunch then. How does four o’clock sound instead? Would that give you sufficient time to get home and prepare? I can send someone to pick you up at three thirty if that is good with you.”</p><p>There was no such thing as sufficient time to prepare for this. “I-I think so, y-yes. But no need to pick me up, really, I can take a walk, I love walking.” Wyatt blabbered without much thinking, as he remembered the scary night drive across the city. He wasn’t sure if he wanted to ever be back in that car.</p><p>“You’d walk through half the city?” Hector laughed. The sound of his deep voice made Wyatt’s hair stand on end. “While after watching you scale walls, I can almost believe that, still I must insist. Now, what would you prefer for lunch?”</p><p>The fact the man saw him somehow sleepwalk over that tall fence and up the wall, while he himself had no memory of that at all, was absolutely surreal and horribly disturbing.</p><p>“I… I don’t… I mean that’s… spaghetti maybe?” he blurted out, only then realizing that being an Italian mobster, Hector could take it as a mockery and stereotyping. Because he was Italian, right? Or was it Spanish… Oh god, he should have gone back to do more research, he didn’t even have his basic facts straight, he was going to be offed on Saturday, and it was probably going to happen during that late lunch. That’s what the ‘late’ part really stood for.</p><p>“Splendid! I love spaghetti. Any allergies or religious constraints my cook should take into account?”</p><p>Yes, he was allergic to the mob, and he believed in the freedom of choice and the value of life.</p><p>“N-no sir. Thank you for your concern.”</p><p>“No need to call me ‘sir’. Hector is just fine, Wyatt.”</p><p>Wyatt shuddered, and a nasty, sinking feeling settled in his stomach for good now. So now he was on a first name basis with the Man. That happened way too soon. “S-sure… Hector. So… where should I wait? At three thirty, I mean?”</p><p>“Wherever you prefer, darling. Can be by the laundromat that you so like.”</p><p>After Hector hung up, Wyatt sat with the receiver next to his face for a while. Then he slowly lowered his hand, still holding the phone. He sat like that for a while as well.</p><p>Then he put the phone down and soon ran out of his apartment and back to the library. He had to make sure he learnt exactly just how Italian Hector was, he couldn’t afford to botch that up. </p><p>After a long and frantic search he managed to find an old interview in which somebody confronted Mr. Viteri with a similar question. It turned out he was quite Italian indeed, but his surname wasn’t. It came from a distant Spanish ancestor.</p><p>Wyatt studied newspapers for as long as he could, relieved to see the same readers as before — just a few youths and the two women with their fashion magazines.</p><p class="has-text-align-center">⚞☆⚟</p><p>The dilapidated tenement house at the edge of the Rat Trap did not strike one as the best place to live, but for Luke it instantly became a long-missed safe haven. The building itself looked like it had a close run in with a wrecking ball — and according to El it was approximately what had happened. El claimed it had been a misunderstanding, but as a result of it, a huge hole gaped in the wall on the second floor, currently patched up partially with bricks and partially with some sort of poorly attached insulation. El said it was unfortunate and rendered the upper floors mostly unreachable, and was causing a bit of a problem with keeping the heat in winter, but for now they were going to be fine. He assured Luke that the rest of the building was structurally sound and cosy. And it really looked that way. </p><p>El and his people had adapted all the abandoned apartments on the ground level as well as the corridor between them into their living quarters and designated the very first apartment from the foyer as something of a common space. Even though not much daylight filtered in through the half-heartedly boarded up windows, the place was sufficiently lit by mismatched floor lamps with colorful shades standing here and there, and had a cosy ambience to it. </p><p>Just like El said, only the first floor of the building turned out to still be accessible. The stairwell leading up was obstructed by mounds of rubble from the partially collapsed wall and ceiling on the upper floor. Even so, there was more than enough space for the inhabitants to live rather comfortably. As for Luke, a roof above his head was all that he could wish for. Everything beyond that felt like excessive luxury. </p><p>There were two older women in the common room when they first entered it, and Luke automatically tried to back away, worried about his curse hurting them. El stopped him with an extended arm and patiently turned him back around to the women, who didn’t even seem to care about them being there. They were sitting on opposing sofas and quarreling about whose turn it was to choose the channel on the small TV set. El interrupted them and made the introductions: the angrier old Indian lady pointing an accusing bony finger around was Neha, while her somewhat mellower, pale opposition, sitting with her arms adamantly crossed on her chest, was Alena. The old women welcomed Luke offhandedly with a shrug and a nod, and as soon as they were left to their own devices, their argument resumed. As he walked out of the room, following El deeper inside the first apartment, Luke wondered if it was perhaps the disagreement itself rather than television that was the old ladies’ entertainment. </p><p></p><div class="wp-block-columns">
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    <p><br/><br/>Neha by <a href="https://twitter.com/iisjah">Iisjah</a></p>
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    <p><br/><br/>Alena by <a href="https://twitter.com/iisjah">Iisjah</a></p>
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</div><p>The next room after the TV room turned out to be a large semi-makeshift kitchen, with a massive, well-stocked fridge and a bit of sitting space. El instructed him briefly on how to report when something needed to be replenished and on the basic rules of sharing the kitchen with others. The bottom line of it was that Neha was in charge of the fridge, but everyone was encouraged to do their fair share of cooking. </p><p>One of the smaller apartments they visited next turned out to house the only fully functioning bathroom, which all of the inhabitants shared. El noted that it was somewhat challenging to get a turn at using the shower in the morning but claimed it was actually not impossible to succeed — and not even run out of hot water — in the afternoon. Soon his host had to attend some business outside, and Luke was given a chance to confirm that claim, much to his pleasure.</p><p>Smelling of soap and feeling a little dreamlike, he made his way to the apartment at the far back that he was going to share with someone called Penny. Luke knocked on the apartment door, but nobody answered. He tried the door. It was unlocked. Luke opened it and, just in case, knocked again. Then he stepped in and almost tripped over a box standing in the corridor. And that was just the beginning. There were boxes everywhere. As he quickly discovered every room in that apartment, except the small shared bedroom, resembled an overcrowded warehouse — most walls were lined with shelves that held wooden and cardboard boxes filled with junk. Even in the bedroom one wall was dedicated to a massive set of shelves, which could be observed from either of the two beds at the opposite wall. Nonetheless, the apartment was relatively clean and the only pervasive smell was that of old people. The bedroom was warm, and the linen on beds appeared freshly washed if somewhat worn out. All of this was a huge improvement over most places he had slept in since he woke in this body.  </p><p>Luke sat down on the bed that was his, overwhelmed by the good graces fate suddenly bestowed on him. Was this another trick his rotten luck was playing on him? Another disaster in the making? He touched the talisman hanging on the string around his neck. This small trinket was able to somehow negate his curse. He didn’t understand how, but it seemed to work. But what if it wouldn’t last?</p><p>“You want those rags of yours washed? Or do you want to stink up the place? Like that old fart Penny isn’t enough!” Neha stuck her head in the door of the bedroom and then knocked, rather as an afterthought.</p><p>Luke jumped up and turned to the old woman, about to back away as far as he could. She <em>wanted</em> something from him. Her goal would be achieved, but at what cost? He clutched again onto the talisman. He waited. Nothing happened.</p><p>“Are you dense? Or deaf? Or do you like the smell of your own sweat?”</p><p>“I… Thank you kindly. But I have no other clothes,” Luke said and felt instantly self-conscious.</p><p>“You can have some of Penny’s. And if the pants don’t fit quite right, he must have a belt lying around here somewhere.”</p><p>“I’m very grateful, but I wouldn’t want to trouble-”</p><p>“I’m not going through any trouble, it’s Alena’s turn to do the washing. Go on, strip, I’ll find you something to wear.” With that the woman approached one of the shelves and began digging through a box full of clothes. “Damn Penny, cursed hoarder. Worse than the dripping Slavic brat. Awful, awful, pale-faced fools.”</p><p>Luke stood in place and did nothing about his clothes. Neha noticed and turned to glare at him.</p><p>“What’s the matter? Are you grown into that jacket? Is it stuck?”</p><p>“I would prefer to change when I am alone, if that is alright.”</p><p>“Ugh.” The woman rolled her eyes. “Suit yourself.” She tossed a pair of jeans, a sweater, undershirt and briefs onto the bed. After some more digging, she also threw mismatched socks on top of the clothes. “Now change and leave the dirty clothes in the corridor. The old hag will pick them up.”</p><p>“Thank you.”</p><p>“Aha, whatever.” Neha went out of the room.</p><p>Luke could hear her grumbling as she waded through the corridor away from him.</p><p>He was alone. But for the first time in over a year he didn’t feel alone.</p><p>He was among people again. He was no longer a threat to anyone. Luke teared up and rubbed his eyes dry with the new undershirt. Then he changed and left his old clothes folded neatly outside. The jeans he was given were so loose they could hardly stay in place, but he felt uncomfortable digging through another man’s things without asking, so he picked up the piece of hempen cord he’d used as a belt before and slipped it through the loops of his borrowed jeans. He would have preferred suspenders, but the cord he used was as humble an accessory as could be, so he did not feel like he broke the Ordnung by wearing it. When he felt as presentable as was possible, Luke ventured out into the apartment building.</p><p>After the kindness shown to him, he felt it was imperative that he made himself useful, so he headed for the kitchen, hoping to help with the preparation of a meal that he could share with his new community. </p><p>The common room was empty this time, but he could hear the sounds of someone chopping vegetables from the kitchen. Luke hurried inside.</p><p>“Hello, may I be of any assistance? I’d like to help you cook…”</p><p>Luke trailed off. Before him, on top of a wooden step stool stood a light haired girl no older than six, busily chopping carrots with a knife as long as her forearm. She glanced at him calmly and went back to work.</p><p></p><div class="wp-block-columns">
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    <p><br/><br/>Amalka by <a href="https://twitter.com/iisjah">Iisjah</a></p>
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    <p>“You can wash the greens.” She swept the chopped carrots into a slowly cooking stew and offered Luke a faint but earnest smile. “You must be Luke. I’m Amalka. Nice to meet you.” </p>
    <p>Luke could hardly muster a response, his eyes were glued to the knife in Amalka’s hands.</p>
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</div><p>Her movements were quick and confident, but that did little to alleviate Luke’s unease.</p><p>“Uh, nice to meet you too… Perhaps I could do the cutting?”</p><p>“No, thank you. Please, wash the greens.”</p><p>“But you’re so young…”</p><p>“And you, I hear, are cursed with ill fortune. So out of the two of us, I’m far more qualified to handle sharp objects, don’t you think?”</p><p>And so Luke found himself washing celery and an assortment of herbs, while the child behind his back turned to cutting potatoes. A moment passed in silence, as Luke focused on his task, letting the ambience of the kitchen envelope him. It wasn’t the same as back home — the electric light buzzed, the stove hissed with burning natural gas, and the sounds of the city, along with some sunlight, filtered in through the boarded-up windows — but it was still a very pleasant place to be in. Luke shook the water off the plants and laid them out on a towel.</p><p>“Is there anything else I can help with?”</p><p>“You can stir the stew if you like.”</p><p>Luke looked into the pot with some interest. The smell that rose from the stew was intense and spicy but pleasant. He took up the wooden spoon and began mixing gently. Amalka lifted and tipped the cutting board, letting potato cubes fall into the stew.</p><p>“Those are very neat cubes,” Luke praised.</p><p>“Thank you.” The little girl smiled. “Now you see why I’m the one doing the cutting?”</p><p>“I suppose.” Luke smiled back.</p><p>Amalka stepped off of her stool and went to pick up the washed celery. Then she was back, chopping it as she addressed Luke again.</p><p>“El said you are one of those… Mennonites or something. Is that true?” </p><p>“I’m Amish,” Luke corrected softly. “But it’s a common mix-up.”</p><p>“Amish, I see. It’s mostly all the same to me. Aren’t you supposed to wear a funny hat though?” The girl stared at him judgingly.</p><p>“I would, but in the big city a straw hat would draw too much attention.”</p><p>“Well, that’s too bad. You should consider it. Hats are fun. El wears one too.”</p><p>“Does he? I have not seen it yet.”</p><p>“He puts it on in the late afternoon. You’ll see. Your straw hat would have nothing on that one. One way or another… I always thought your kind made a point of staying out of trouble. How did you get yourself cursed?”</p><p>Luke stopped stirring the pot. For a moment the warmth of the kitchen seemed to drain away, and his heart sank in his chest. The sparks dancing on the surface of the stew — reflections of the electric lights above — were suddenly stars swaying and blinking beyond the ether, stars that were threatening to fall and strike him, smite him for his hubris and his curiosity.</p><p>“I strayed off the path. I ignored the righteous way, and was drawn to my doom by my curiosity.” </p><p>The little girl shrugged. “You say that like you’re quoting from the Bible. But what really happened?”</p><p>“I’ll tell you some other time. If you don’t mind.” Luke averted his gaze and went back to stirring the stew. Despite the rich aroma of the cooking food, his appetite was gone.</p><p>Soon after that they were done with the cooking. Amalka covered the pot with a lid and told Luke she no longer needed his help. He was to return in an hour to dine with the rest of them. Luke nodded his agreement and left.</p><p>He knew it was foolish to get so emotional over the innocent questions of a child, but he couldn’t easily shake off the dreadful impression of that fateful night and the memory of the price his loved ones and countless others had paid for it. Luke touched the talisman around his neck and breathed a sigh of relief. As he passed a window, through the crack between the boards he noticed a small gathering in the street outside. Luke paused and pressed his face to the gap, studying the odd group. Could those be the other inhabitants of the tenement? If so he wanted to meet them. In fact, he wanted to meet them even if they weren’t. For the first time in years he was beginning to feel safe, no longer a danger to others. Finally he could be around people. He <em>wanted</em> to be around them. Luke hurried towards the door outside almost with a bounce in his step.</p><p>When he went out, he realized the gathering had its focal point around his benefactor. El laughed, shook hands with someone that looked like an elegant vagrant, passed a small packet to a woman in a blue dress, who nodded, stole a glance at Luke and quickly walked away.</p><p>Luke frowned, a bit confused, but he didn’t have time to dwell on it, because El has already turned towards him with a bright smile. “Ah, there you are. Looking better already.” El took a couple sniffs as he came closer. “And all acquainted with the shower facilities, I see. Good, good. How are you finding the lodgings and the lodgers?”</p><p>The small man was indeed wearing a hat now, and it one impossible to disregard. And at the very center of it, among multiple layers of plumes, folds of different fabrics, gems and plants — once again Luke guessed they had to be plastic — sat a huge stuffed bird the likes of which Luke had never seen. Its shimmering feathers of green, blue and brown reflected the afternoon sun, making the browns seem almost orange. The bird’s head was featherless and its skin was mostly light blue, but there were small round yellow growths scattered around its forehead and beak, and its dark glassy eyes were rimmed with red. Luke found himself almost face to face with the bird, and it captivated his attention to such an extent, that he froze with his mouth ajar, forgetting that El asked him a question. He managed to tear his eyes away only because the hat travelled away after a while as El bade his final goodbyes to the slowly dissipating crowd.</p><p>Luke attempted to gather his thoughts and when the small man in the huge hat turned back to him, he was ready to ignore the bird and to speak again. “I… I’d like to thank you again for letting me stay with you. For giving me your protection.” Luke uttered at last and touched the talisman under his shirt. </p><p>El waved his hand dismissively. “Welcome, welcome, but really no need. We’re all helping each other out here, it’s what we do.” </p><p></p><div class="wp-block-image">
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</div><p>Luke noticed that none of the people leaving went inside the building. “Who were these people if it’s alright to ask?”</p><p>“But of course it is!” El laughed and the green inlays in his teeth sparkled in the sun rays. “I welcome all questions, though I may not always choose to answer them as clearly as one would wish for. Those were our various business partners, friends, applicants, supplicants, you name it! You will see a lot of them come by, especially whenever they find out I’m here. Many of them you will learn to recognize. Some others come specifically to deal with me, and you may have nothing to do with them.” El gestured abundantly as he spoke, pointing from Luke to himself. Then he froze with his finger in the air.” Which brings us to something I’d like you to be aware of. As you will soon learn, I am a man of business and that means I’m not always around. So whenever you do see me, and I am not being besieged, do make sure to seize the opportunity to ask questions and tell me what’s on your mind. Now come, let’s not stand around. Those chairs aren’t out here to be avoided.”</p><p>El heartily patted Luke on the mid back where he could reach and herded him towards the cheap green plastic chairs that stood under the wall of the tenement building. Behind those chairs, all around them, and even between them, under the equally cheap plastic table of a roughly matching color, lay items that looked partially like garbage and partially like usable household appliances. They seemed to have spilled over from the tall mound that stretched alongside the part of the building. Luke had seen it before when they first arrived here, but had no clue what it was, so now he timidly inquired about it.</p><p>The small man in the big hat smiled. “Ah, <em>the pile</em>. The key things you should know about it are that it is to be covered with a tarp when it rains, and that everything in it is free for the taking should you need it. Likewise if you ever find yourself in possession of something you <em>don’t </em>need, put it there, maybe someone else will find a use for it.” El sat down in one of the chairs.</p><p>“That… is a very nice idea.” Luke still felt out of his depth, but sharing was virtuous, and a community that practiced it had to be good company. Luke followed his host’s example and also sat down in a plastic chair. </p><p>“We’re hospitable like that. So if you see people coming up to leave an item, or taking some, just let them do it. Though of course if you see someone just bagging everything, they’re probably stealing to sell for scrap, so it might be a good idea to stop them,” El said and began rummaging in one of his satchels.</p><p>“Of course.” Luke nodded sternly.</p><p>El lifted his gaze up at him for a moment. “Don’t make it your mission though. Your roommate is already invested in watching over that one.”</p><p>“You must mean Penny… when will I meet him?”</p><p>El shrugged. “He’ll pop up back here sooner or later. The sooner the more we talk about him.” He pulled out a long cigar and a box of matches from his satchel and got busy with them.</p><p>Luke took that time to look around. The chairs were facing another brick building on the opposite side of the street. Unlike the building he was going to be living in, this one seemed to be properly inhabited, as indicated by the lack of boards in the windows and the presence of curtains and lights in some of them. His eyes travelled up, moving from one window to the other.</p><p>El followed Luke’s gaze. “It’s not much of a view, one thinks at first. Until one sees all these stories.”</p><p>Luke looked at his benefactor and then again at the building before them. Everything he saw or heard posed new questions, but even though El encouraged him to do that, he still felt hesitant to ask them. Excessive curiosity had done him and others nothing but harm in the past. And yet, despite his desire to avoid immoderate inquiry, he had to question his good fortune. His experience with the Citizens had made him more suspicious than he liked, but he couldn’t shake off the impression there had to be a catch. There was alwaysa catch with the Englishmen, not that the moniker suited El very well, he clearly wasn’t English… On the other hand, earnest charity was too rare and precious to insult by voicing his doubts. Luke looked down at his feet. </p><p>He heard El light his cigar and felt the smell of smoke. After a moment, his host cleared his throat expectantly. “Well? I can feel you’re not done asking. So keep those questions coming. I want you feeling at peace here and you won’t feel that way until we get at least some more of these out of the way.”</p><p>Luke furrowed his eyebrows, feeling guilty the moment the words started leaving his lips. He kept staring at the ground. “You said there is something I can do for you, something to repay your kindness, a job of some sort. What will it be?”</p><p>“Ah, good, straight to the point!” More than anything, El seemed amused. “Like I mentioned, we like to help others here. As you can imagine, across this entire city, there are various people who need help with all sorts of things.” He gestured widely with his cigar, and then he pointed it right at Luke. “Now, I know a kind soul when I see one, and you must be eager to meet people now that you cannot harm them, so I thought you would be just <em>perfect</em> for the role.” He winked.</p><p>“You want me to… help people?” Luke looked at El in disbelief.</p><p>“Why, yes! See? I told you that you wouldn’t mind.” El released a puff of smoke and flashed his green-inlaid smile at him. “I am unable to let you know how exactly you will be helping simply because, as you know best from personal experience, there are just so many different hardships people face everyday. Those hardships are something you will have to learn to look out for day to day. But from the simpler requests I am able to predict right now, except for helping other lodgers take care of this household, I will ask you sometimes to deliver or receive a message or a parcel. In fact, there will be one package that you can accept today, a very easy one, just to show you how it is. As far as I’ve been told, that particular courier will come to us on a motorcycle.”</p><p> </p><p>
  
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    <p>“Why, it’s been quite tolerable so far. I’ve been waiting for you, my boy.” The priest came up to him, faint moonlight caught in the silvering hair. “Because there is a lot of work to be done.”</p>
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</div><p>The priest inhaled slowly, as he embraced the biker, and then let out a slightly exasperated sigh right next to Yen’s ear. “For you, always, my unruly boy.” His lips touched the young man’s earlobe as the priest’s hands gripped the leather of biker’s colors, tugging Yen closer still. “Approximately one and a half minute and then we do business.”</p><p>“I can work with that,” Yen purred. His hands slid down Blaise’s front. They almost made it into the priest’s trousers, but Blaise caught and restrained them, glowering at the biker.</p><p>“Oh for crying out loud, Yen… ”</p><p>Yen puckered his lips and pouted. “Well you don’t need to cry out loud if you don’t wanna.”</p><p>“That was not a challenge, boy. I know that you’re capable of being rash,” father Ivers said as he pressed him against the wall next to the window, pinning Yen’s wrists above his head with one hand and gripping his chin with the other. “But the finer things in life come with patience.”</p><p>“Well, I’m mighty fine and I come-”</p><p>Blaise kissed him, and the biker’s protest was instantly forgotten. Yen’s tongue lapped at the priest’s lips hungrily even as the older man began withdrawing mere moments later.</p><p>“Well, the time’s up.”</p><p>“That wasn’t even a minute,” Yen protested.</p><p>“It was all that you needed right now.”</p><p>“A raging boner?”</p><p>“Incentive. Come now, Yen.” Blaise beckoned and switched on the light on the stairs as he descended.</p><p>“‘Come now, Yen’, I can’t come on command. Incentive, more like insensitive,” Yen grumbled. “And all this talk of coming. False advertisement.”</p><p>“If you had ever bothered to attend a mass, you would have known what to expect. First coming, second coming… and a lot of false promises as well.” Blaise led him down the stairs, across the hallway and into the kitchen where neatly packaged items were already waiting for a courier to deliver them into the right hands at the right time. </p><p>“Seriously, what the fuck,” Yen complained. “That Ancient Egyptian gig of ours now seems more reliable, at least nobody tells you someone is coming when nobody is.”</p><p>Before Blaise managed to react, Yen had already finished unwrapping and opening a small case. He was frowning at three opalescent roughly egg-shaped stones that lay inside it. </p><p>“What’s that?” </p><p>“Something that would have rendered you infertile and possibly dead if you were a woman.” Blaise confiscated the case, closed it, and wrapped it back up. “How many times do I have to tell you, Yen. Do <em>not</em> open the packages.”</p><p>“Ok. What’s this?” Yen pointed to an unopened package, but made no move to open it this time. When he received no reply from Blaise, he lifted it to his ear, rattled it and listened to the softly rustling contents.</p><p>“Yen. Focus.”</p><p></p><div class="wp-block-columns">
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</div><p>The priest passed a list to him. Father Ivers trusted nothing to Yen’s memory. As always, the symbols on the paper next to the specified drop points coincided with the labels on the parcels and boxes. There were times of delivery given next to some of the entries, sometimes very precise. Prices or sometimes items that Yen was supposed to get in exchange were listed as well, together with information on whether or not Yen was supposed to inspect the package. No names of the clients were specified, they almost never were. Blaise gave Yen concise verbal instructions, and when he was sure everything was understood, they packed the items into Yen’s spacious backpack.</p><p>When they were done, the priest told the biker to stand still, and he hung a piece of something on a leather cord around his neck.</p><p>“Wear this close to your heart tonight, preferably under your shirt. Then return it to me.”</p><p>“A-alright… But what is it?” Yen inspected the thing under different angles. It looked like a piece of bone with some feathers on.</p><p>Blaise extricated it from Yen’s fingers and tucked it under his shirt, ending the examination session. “It’s a fetish,” he answered tiredly.</p><p>“Ooh, Daddy! It kind of tickles by the way.”</p><p>“I think you’re ready to go.” Blaise’s patience was running thin, and he all but pushed the young man out of the door.</p><p>Yen stood on the doorstep. Reluctant to go do his courier duty, he instead pointed towards the plants growing in the small garden outside. “What’s gotta go is this vegetation. Your garden’s outta control. What’s that mutated dandelion that’s all over the place?”</p><p>“Potentilla erecta.”</p><p>“Pf, no way, now you’re just tormenting me.”</p><p>“Otherwise known as tormentilla.”</p><p>“Oh come on! Quit making shit up.”</p><p>“Go, Yen, just go. Come back when you’re done.”  </p><p>The biker shrugged. “Fine.”</p><p>He walked down the stairs and towards his bike. As he rolled the motorcycle back out onto the street he wistfully looked up at the lit windows of father Ivers’ bedroom. For almost five weeks he had worked for the priest doing these bizarre deliveries. Herbs, parts of dead animals, chunks of crystals, sticks and stones, seashells, little figurines that Blaise probably imported from China, charms made of wood and bone, and other superstitious nonsense. Yen couldn’t believe the junk sold as well as it did. What he could believe just fine though was a Catholic priest swindling people. Bullshitting people into believing things that didn’t exist and conning money out of them was the essence of the job. And Blaise Ivers was ridiculously good at it. Respectable clergyman by day, peddler of exotic rubbish by night. Yen could only aspire to that level of crooked. Still, he got his share of the proceeds, in fact he’d bought this rad motorbike with it, so there was nothing to complain about.</p><p>“Hey, you!”</p><p>Yen cringed as a ray of a flashlight blinded him.</p><p>“Is that your bike?”</p><p>“Duh, it is my bike,” Yen snapped at the dark figure on the opposite side of the street.</p><p>“Then why the heck are you rolling it around instead of riding it?!”</p><p>Yen turned away, blinking furiously. “Because I was trying to be fucking mindful! But I see politeness and goodwill are not appreciated in this neighborhood!” He got onto his bike and started it. “And if that’s the case, then you can fuck the hell off, and go shine that flashlight up your asshole!” Yen yelled and rode off, accelerating sharply. The man swore after him, but Yen hardly heard him over the roar of the engine.</p><p></p><div class="wp-block-image">
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</div><p>As he turned onto another street, he slowed down to make less noise. And hopefully stay out of trouble. The backpack with Blaise’s goods had covered his colors. So the flashlight-waving dickhead shouldn’t be able to identify the club he belonged to. He was one of the few East Asian bikers in town, but heck, Yen could bet twenty bucks the guy wouldn’t have been able to tell that with all the squinting and cringing Yen did under that bright light.</p><p>It was annoying how he now had to think of these things. Life had been ridiculously simple when he had nothing to lose. But Sam and his improved quality of life had made Yen more aware of the consequences of his brash actions. He would pick a fight any day as long as the only things that could get hurt were his body and pride. But now that expensive bikes, club rep, and other things had entered the equation, Yen found himself more and more often conscious — if only post-factum — of the possible ramifications.</p><p>At least the flashlight guy wasn’t a cop. He didn’t sound like one.</p><p>Yen shook his head, getting rid of the responsible mature thoughts. The night was cool and quiet, and the streets were his. Easy money was going to rain on him soon. All he had to do was ride around town and hand out junk to sleepless weirdos.</p><p>The first delivery point of the night was downtown, namely, in the Rat Trap. </p><p>Even this late at night, the tiny neighborhood on the edge of the docks was buzzing with activity. Round the clock adult movie theaters were advertising a plethora of ridiculously named flicks, hookers posed in the lights of lamps and neon signs, while hobos slumped against buildings. </p><p>Yen snorted at some of the more ludicrous porn titles. Most of them were well familiar to him. Even so, they were still funny. He didn’t frequent the place as much as he’d used to until six years ago, still he had no problem finding his way around. The Trap was much bigger back then, but the city’s been trying hard to expunge the seedy neighborhood. What Yen rode through now was a small island of filth off the flow of the city’s main street, slowly bled dry by the decreased influx of clients and cash. Give the cops and city council several years to continue the pressure, and the place would likely be gone for good.</p><p>Yen’s drop-off was on the quieter dock-side edge of the Trap. And he was glad for it because some of the prostitutes were eyeing him, and the last thing he wanted was being accosted by a pair of badly covered sweaty boobs.</p><p>“No, nope, ladies, not interested, thank you very much, very gay over here. All into ballsacks and meat popsicles, and not even into drag at all, so no future for us whatsoever!” Yen spoke the magic words of protection when one of the women of the night began walking in his direction as he waited for a swaying group of friends to escort their really high comrade across the street. </p><p>“You can’t afford me even if you sell that bike, Yen.” The hooker crossed her arms, glaring at him. She was older than most of the skimpily dressed women on the sidewalk. Her clothes were cheap and kitsch, but her hair and makeup were flawless.</p><p>“Oh. Monica!” The biker brightened up. “Haven’t seen you in a million years. How’s business?” He walked the bike to the side of the street to talk to the woman, no longer avoidant.</p><p>“Not what it used to be.” </p><p>“What, old man Romeo’s losing his touch? Marketing department lagging behind?”</p><p>“Oh, no, if anything Romeo’s shed at least twenty years since you left. He’s like a young man again.” Monica laughed. “Speaking of which, I haven’t seen you here in years!”</p><p>“Yeah, I’ve grown out of this place.” Yen shrugged. “I couldn’t do these one-time gigs for the rest of my life. A time comes when a man has to settle down and put down roots. So I found myself a sucker to squat with, a boyfriend to boast about and a silver fox sugar daddy to shower me with money, as evidenced by this sweet ride.” Yen gestured towards his bike.</p><p>“Ah, Yen, full of shit as always. Next thing you’ll tell me, this bike wasn’t bought with drug money. Keep boasting and someone will knock you off of it and steal it.” The woman snorted. </p><p>“It wasn’t bought with drug money.”</p><p>“Of course.”</p><p>“Say, Monny, do you know who operates in the North East corner of the Trap?”</p><p>“A few people. Why do you ask?”</p><p>“Curiosity.”</p><p>“Killed the cat.”</p><p>“I’m more of a bat out of hell if I do say so myself.” Yen leered.</p><p>Monica shook her head. “There used to be a few gambling spots near there, but they’ve moved a few years ago. Now it’s almost all empty. But there’s this guy, goes by El, squatting with his few girls in one of the condemned buildings there. El’s alright, treats us all like princesses.” The hooker held her head up proudly, suddenly self-important. “But the rest of them are a bunch of weirdos. There’s this one old hag, in particular, that gives me the hibbie-jibbies.”</p><p>“Huh,” Yen said. “Sounds like my clientele alright.”</p><p>“So it is drugs?”</p><p>Yen rolled his eyes. “What are you, working with NCPD now?”</p><p>“Pf, whatever. Don’t tell me you brat.” Monica waved a hand. “Anyway, it was nice to see you.”</p><p>“Same here. Stay safe.” Yen waved and rode off.</p><p>It took him a minute or so to reach the derelict apartment building where he was supposed to deliver the first package. The boarded-up windows and shabby walls were off-putting enough, but the sheer quiet and emptiness of the area gave him the creeps. This was a perfect place for someone to ambush him, just as Monica had said. And not even the lively noises of the Trap trickling in from just a street away helped alleviate this impression. </p><p>Yen rode up to the front stoop and almost jumped when something moved on the dark stairs.</p><p>“For fuck’s sake, a hello would be nice!” Yen barked angrily.</p><p>The shadowy figure emerged into the muddy light of the single functioning street lamp. The man had seemed large in the dark, but now Yen could see the size was all clothes. The guy’s face was bony and his neck thin, the oversized sweater was hanging loosely on his narrow shoulders.</p><p>“H-hello.” The man said hesitantly.</p><p>Yen looked at him doubtfully. “And you are?”</p><p>“I’m… Luke. I was told to pick up a package.”</p><p>“Oh, really?” Yen squinted. “Hey… I know you. You’re that bum, that’s been working lawns for folks on Eastfield. Nana Riley’s left food out for you every other day, and I saw you running in horror from some little kids just two weeks ago.”</p><p>Luke nodded seriously. “Yes. That was me.”</p><p>“And now what, I am supposed to hand over valuable goods to some crazy antisocial hobo?”</p><p>“I uh… I’m not… Please, I would like to receive the package. I am employed now. I have the money from El.” Luke pulled out a roll of banknotes from his pocket. “You can count it.” He offered it to Yen.</p><p>The biker’s eyebrows rose. He recognized the twenty dollar bill on the outside. If the insides of the roll weren’t all ones, that was a lot of money. He leaned over and snatched the cash from Luke, flipping through the edges of the banknotes. All twenties.</p><p>Yen whistled softly. “Looks paid for. Ok, let me get your stuff.” He consulted the list and pulled the backpack off his shoulders. He made sure to keep an eye on his surroundings even more now. Not only did he have a nice bike, but also quite a bit of green. But it appeared except for the familiar hobo and him there was no one else in the by-street. Yen finally fished out the right package and shook it gently, listening.</p><p>“W-what are you doing?” Luke asked anxiously.</p><p>“I’m trying to understand what costs so freaking much. It sounds like something fuzzy.” Yen tried to delicately rip the package open to see inside.</p><p>“I don’t think you should be opening it!”</p><p>“Me neither, pal, but you got me intrigued.” Yen tilted the slightly opened paper bag to shed some light inside. “Bah. Looks like roadkill. Why are you people buying roadkill?”</p><p>“You shouldn’t open these!” Luke protested. “Please, just give me the package.”</p><p>“Sure.” Yen handed him the paper bag. “Have your possum. Or whatever. It was dead when I got it so you know, no fault of mine.”</p><p>Luke took the package and sealed it closed to the best of his ability. He looked at it and at Yen in turns with a troubled frown on his face.</p><p>“Ok, you say hi to your boss or something. Night-night, Skywalker.”</p><p>The hobo stared back at him like he had seen a ghost. And maybe he did, but Yen didn’t care, he just rode off into the night.</p><p class="has-text-align-center">⚞☆⚟</p><p>Did the biker actually know more about him than he put on? Luke shook his head, uneasy, then winced at the paper bag. He hoped it was alright that the courier had opened it. His first assignment from El on his very first day, such a simple one too, and he had already managed to botch it. He turned around and went back inside to face the consequences.</p><p>He found El in the common room in the company of Neha and Alena. Anezka, Alena’s daughter had shown up earlier in the evening, but they didn’t get to really talk, she just grabbed something to eat and disappeared into the apartment that she shared with the other two women from her family. Now Anezka and her daughter must have already gone to sleep. El and the two old ladies were watching a nature documentary about pelicans, so it looked like there was at least one program the women managed to agree on. El was still wearing his hat with the giant bird on it, in fact, it was the only part of the man sticking out from behind the backrest of the couch. Luke waited for several minutes not to disturb them and then during a commercial break, cleared his throat and approached them with an air of defeat.</p><p>“I have the package delivered by a young man on a motorcycle. I gave him the payment as instructed, but I’m afraid I have still failed you. He opened the package and looked inside it, I did not manage to stop him.” Luke presented the slightly damaged brown paper bag to El who turned around to him.</p><p>The small man took the package from him and gave its contents a cursory glance. “You did very well, Luke, and rest assured that you’re not at fault. As a rule of thumb, if a courier ruins a good he ought to deliver, then his employer is the one responsible for covering the damages. But please don’t let that scare you when you’ll be making some deliveries yourself.” El added as he saw an apprehensive expression readily shaping up on Luke’s face. “I’m sure you’ll prove very reliable.”</p><p>“You can trust me not to let my curiosity get the best of me, I promise,” Luke said and meant it. “I won’t let you down.”</p><p>“Hm, that’s not at all what I meant.” El sighed. “Just don’t worry too much. Even if something goes wrong, I’m known to be pretty forgiving.”</p><p>“He’s forgiving alright, but I’m not.” Neha glowered at them. “So either take this elsewhere or shut up, are we watching these birds, or are we yapping like dogs?” </p><p>El flashed her a charming smile. “We’re almost done here, sweetheart.” Then he turned back to Luke and whispered loudly, “Anyway, just be spontaneous and everything will be alright.”</p><p>Luke felt a burden of responsibility settle on his shoulders. Spontaneity was not one of his fortes.</p><p></p><div class="wp-block-image">
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<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Moonlit Ride</h2></a>
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    <p class="has-text-align-center">⚞⚿⚟</p><p>“The family is out of town for a few days, so we go slow and steady and take as much as we can,” Craig lectured the rest of the thieves as Kat drove them to their destination. “Kat will stay with the car, Hunter and I will be collecting the valuables. You, Ocher, will be carrying stuff between the house and the car. No improvisation, ok? Ocher, do you hear me?”</p><p>Ocher was looking out of the backseat window at the city drowned in dusk and street lights but turned his head to the other thief. “Y-yeah, alright.”</p><p>Two years in, and Craig still didn’t trust him with the delicate work. They used to let him into the houses sometimes, but during the last few heists he was just carrying things around. He knew that there were just four of them, and someone had to do it, but it still felt like a demotion. Normally he would have argued for a bit before giving up, but now he didn’t even try to. Friday night came way too quickly, and with all his thoughts glued to tomorrow’s dreaded first date with the city’s crime lord, he was so absent-minded that he was actually thankful nobody seemed to want to charge him with anything more important. </p><p>He’d barely even made it on time for their scheduled burglary tonight, because he’d been so stressed that he forgot about it altogether. He had spent the few hours he had after work at the library again, flooded with stacks of newspapers in a desperate attempt to prepare for something no one could possibly ever prepare for. And still all he could think about now was just how little he knew about Hector Viteri. The amount of potential library visits he had skipped last week during his in-denial stage was staggering. He could have gone to the library four more times. Four. That was at least twelve extra hours of reading he could have done. Hours that could save his life. After that phone call yesterday he had been so nervous that in the morning he had almost spilled petrol on his trousers while tanking a customer’s car, and then during today’s visit at the library he had been so unfocused that he had to reread each paragraph a few times to even comprehend the words he was looking at. It felt like preparing for an exam a day before. Only this exam could kill him if he failed. In fact, he felt he had already failed it. He should have never made the Man move the lunch to later. The devoted fan that he claimed to be would have dropped everything to be there whenever the businessman mobster wished to see him. Yeah, he was already dead.</p><p>And as such, Ocher kind of wished he didn’t have to go burgle a house tonight. But they’d been arranging this for a while, and everyone was counting on him. He guessed there was a silver lining to this, though. Some real criminal action would help him get in character of the Man’s biggest fan and give him a chance to fight for his life. And the library was already closed anyway, although earlier today he had seriously considered stowing away for the night just to get some more reading in.</p><p>“Good.” Craig’s voice broke through the current of his racing thoughts. “The master bedroom is upstairs. The wife seems to be wearing different jewels everyday, so that’s where I want to start.” He rubbed his hands in anticipation.</p><p>“Are you completely sure they don’t have alarms or cameras?” Kat asked skeptically from behind the wheel.</p><p>“I’m sure. They’re not a business to have cameras.” Craig said, running a hand through his dirty blond hair. “As to the alarm, they’re new here, and they were meeting up with several security companies just before they left, but had not committed to any. That’s going to be their downfall.”</p><p>“Good job on picking this one, Craig.” Hunter, who was in the backseat with Ocher, patted their self-appointed but uncontested leader on the shoulder. “Sounds like the timing is just right.”</p><p>“It sure is. So you bozos better not botch this up.”</p><p>Hunter withdrew his hand and exchanged sheepish glances with Ocher. Craig’s professionalism in picking targets and organizing heists was only matched by his self-importance. They needed him much more than he needed them, and he made it clear on every possible occasion. Hunter could have made a case for himself, but he was too much of a pushover. Ocher meanwhile was well aware that Craig’s low esteem of his thievery skills wasn’t entirely unfair. Even though he’d been with the thieves for a couple of years, he was still just a geology dropout to them. And that was his own fault again. Maybe if he hadn’t corrected Craig’s knowledge of rocks and minerals that one time they burgled somebody with a collection of hematites and limonites and hadn’t tried to shine with the random fact that those were the main ingredients of certain ocher pigments, he wouldn’t have been labeled ‘Ocher’ ever since. He learnt to actually like that mocking nickname. It had a nice ring to it, and felt fitting somehow, but he knew Craig would never let him forget where it originally came from. Just a dropout geology student. Not a real thief. </p><p>Well he was going to show Craig he was wrong. They had no idea, but he was the realest thief of them all. He’d had the guts to burgle <em>the Man</em> and somehow managed that <em>while sleeping</em>. Ha, suck it, Craig!</p><p>“We’re almost there,” Kat reported from behind the steering wheel.</p><p>“Great. Now. Guys, get your gloves on,” Craig ordered.</p><p>“Way ahead of you.” Hunter rolled his eyes.</p><p>“We tied our shoelaces too, in case you were going to remind us,” Ocher chimed in. Somehow he succeeded in transmuting his fear into a confidence boost. He suddenly felt like he was someone important.</p><p>“Oh haha, smart-guy. Keep those wits for the job,” Craig said without looking back at him.</p><p>The car stopped on the side of a little used road, beside a heavily overgrown hillside. A few meters up the hill, beyond a couple of thick trees, was a tall fence. The thieves pulled on makeshift masks, got out of the car and used a small portable ladder to make it over the fence. Then Kat passed it to them.</p><p>The three men hurriedly sneaked through the moonlit backyard and into the shadow of the porch. Wyatt and Craig crouched to the sides from Hunter, using their jackets to help conceal the light of Craig’s flashlight as the oldest thief worked on the lock.</p><p>Ocher couldn’t help but feel impressed by how skillfully Hunter worked with lock-picks. He’d brought a proper set of tools, owning which was in itself a crime. But it was a worthwhile risk. Hunter’s lock-picking tools and expertise allowed them to hit well-off suburban houses like this one, leaving sleeping neighbors undisturbed. They could spend hours inside, carefully looking around, finding the valuables and leaving with them without drawing any attention to themselves.</p><p>In a moment it was done, and the three of them went in. The place was furnished quite lavishly but sparingly. It seemed like items were already missing before they even came. But Ocher remembered Craig’s earlier briefing, and it made more sense — the house had been sold only recently and some of the stuff must have not been unpacked yet. It made things both easier and harder for them. They got some pre-packaged items, but couldn’t estimate the value. So the boxes were rather low on their list of priorities.</p><p>After a quick, curious glance inside, Ocher went back out and stayed at the door as told, watching for any signs of danger from Kat and listening for any noises from the neighboring lots. All was quiet, but he was feeling pretty jumpy. This whole thieving business was always stressful, but that was not it. It was his fake confidence starting to rapidly deflate. He wasn’t a real burglar or a good thief. Breaking into that mansion while asleep was not an achievement. He got caught. And no matter how he tried to bullshit himself, he was terrified of what tomorrow would bring. It was so damn hard to stop thinking about the Man, about his two Dobermans and that basement with rusty stains on the floor. He was about eighty percent sure that either this or the next ‘date’ with Hector Viteri was going to be his funeral, but he tried to stop thinking about it. This was a bad time. He couldn’t afford to let his guard down right now.</p><p>Hunter and Craig spread out with their flashlights and bags. A few minutes later, Craig returned, bringing him a sports bag filled with stolen goods.</p><p>“Go, pass this on to Kate, I’ll leave the door ajar. Hunter is working on a safe upstairs. Not sure if he’ll manage. I’ll sweep the rest of the first floor meanwhile.”</p><p>“Okay.” Ocher took the bag from him.</p><p>“And don’t dawdle in the yard.”</p><p>“I’m not five, you know.” Seriously, he knew he was still inexperienced, but he didn’t suck all <em>that</em> much. Craig could give him at least some credit. On the bright side though, the other thief’s snide remarks made Ocher forget about his grim future for another brief moment. </p><p>He made eight trips between the house and the garden fence over the next couple of hours and was just coming back after having carried one of the mystery boxes when he heard a door open beyond the fence to his right. Then there came a sound of too many steps. And before he could process what was happening — loud barking. Ocher swore under his breath and rushed away from that side of the fence and towards the house. A light went on on the neighbor’s porch.</p><p>“What is it, boy?” An old man’s voice asked.</p><p>Ocher dove for the bushes.</p><p>The barking continued. It sounded like a big dog. Luckily the fence was tall enough to keep it out. A moment later a flashlight searched the yard. Ocher sighed with relief, as it passed the bushes he was hiding behind without pausing.</p><p>“What the heck?”</p><p>Ocher felt his heart stop. He glanced towards where the light now shone and saw the ladder they’d used, standing right in the spotlight.</p><p>The light withdrew quickly, and there was a loud thudding of steps on the neighbor’s deck. Ocher scrambled to his feet and dashed for the house. Craig almost hit him with the door. </p><p>“What the fuck was that?” he hissed.</p><p>“The neighbor saw our ladder, he’s going to call the cops!” Ocher whispered in a panic.</p><p>“Shit! Why did you just leave it standing?!”</p><p>“You didn’t say I shouldn’t!”</p><p>“What do you mean I didn’t tell you? I told you, and you said alright, you said alright to bloody everything tonight! Oh for fuck’s sake!” Craig swore. “Go help Kat pack up, I’ll get Two Bits.” He turned and ran into the house.</p><p>Ocher ran across the yard. There was no longer a point in trying to keep quiet. The neighbor’s dog kept barking. He scaled the ladder, climbed over the fence and jumped down on the grass.</p><p>“Ocher? What’s going on there with the barking?” Kat glared up at him, patches of moonlight lighting her frowning face and the cardboard box she was pulling downhill across the grass.</p><p>He hurried to her and lifted the box, carrying it down towards the car. “There’s a dog and its owner saw the ladder. We gotta go.”</p><p>Kat swore and darted down to help him fit the box into the trunk. They were almost out of space. Moments later Craig and Hunter came running down the hill with the ladder, which took up the remaining room in the trunk. The thieves scrambled into the car and Kat drove off, before they even closed the doors.</p><p>For a minute, no one was talking. Masks and gloves were taken off and stuffed under the front seats. Ocher nervously dusted the bits of soil from his clothes. All of them listened for sirens. Minutes passed, they drove further and further away, unobstructed.</p><p>“Why didn’t you tell us there was going to be a dog, Craig?” Kat asked. “I thought you had the place figured out.”</p><p>“I had!” Craig snapped. “The neighbors weren’t supposed to have a dog. They didn’t have a dog last week!”</p><p>“I guess they have someone with a dog visiting,” Hunter theorized.</p><p>“Shut up, Two Bits! No one asked you!” Craig snapped again. “You wasted all the time on that safe. While you could have been helping me with searching for the jewelry box! And that idiot Ocher just left the ladder in plain sight!”</p><p>“Sorry! I’m really sorry, okay?” Ocher said, exasperated. “It won’t happen again!”</p><p>Craig glared at him. “You better fucking make sure it doesn’t.”</p><p>“I will… So what was in the safe?” Ocher asked, trying to change the topic.</p><p>“Guns,” Hunter said. “Lots of handguns.”</p><p>“And cocaine,” Craig added bitterly. “But I’m not getting into the drug trade, it’s too high profile…”</p><p>A silence fell.</p><p>“You know what…” Hunter said slowly. “I think I left the safe open.”</p><p>There was another quiet moment and then the entire car burst out laughing. </p><p>“Oh my god, that’s rich! They’ll be more wanted than us when the cops come!”</p><p>“A safe full of guns and cocaine!”</p><p>“Good job, Two Bits!”</p><p>“I also found a golden Rolex on the bedside table,” Hunter said with a smile.</p><p>“This calls for a celebration, I say,” Craig laughed, all hostility forgotten. “Let’s drop the stuff off at my place, and go to the bar.”</p><p>The rest echoed in agreement, and so it was decided.</p><p>Once the car was safely parked in Craig’s garage, the lot of them tidied up and took the night bus to their favorite haunt, the Big Dipper. It was a cheap bar mostly frequented by students. Hunter was the only one of the four who had seen the more upscale place called the Constellation — or as Hunter pronounced it ‘Cancellation’ — that had occupied the same venue ten years ago. Many of the cosmic decorations remained, since the new owners went with the same theme. But they removed the dancefloor and packed the place with booths and tables so tightly it was often hard to walk through the room.</p><p>Craig knew the owner, so a booth could always be found or made available for him and his.</p><p>This night was no different. They got their booth and their drinks, and the first toast of the night went to a job well-done. The little band of thieves sat merry and triumphant, drinks in hand. Before they were done with the first round, Craig ordered another one.</p><p>The conversation was cheery and nobody held any more grudges or remembered about impending dates with mob bosses. Kat told them about her recent trip to another state where local thieves had put up a ‘BEWARE OF PICKPOCKETS’ sign to quickly locate places where people kept their wallets — because apparently nothing makes you check if your wallet is still in place quite like such a sign. They shared jokes and stories. Ocher, who sat beside Hunter on one side of the table, noticed the oldest thief was fidgeting more than usual. The reason for it was clear — he sat opposite to Kat. Hunter’s crush on Kat was old news, but so far he had failed miserably in winning her affections. Ocher’s sense of impending second-hand embarrassment was tingling. Here came another attempt.</p><p>“Eh… Kat, I eh…” Hunter mumbled like he was a teenager and not a man in his thirties. “I got you a little something.” He put a small velvety box on the table.</p><p>Craig frowned at the box. “It better not be from today’s stuff.”</p><p>“No, no, it’s not,” Hunter assured him quickly.</p><p>Kat looked highly unimpressed. She reluctantly opened the box and sighed. “Are these earrings stolen?”</p><p>“Uh…”</p><p>“Two Bits,” Kat said seriously, pushing the box back towards Hunter. “Do you know what happened to… what was her name… Tiffany?”</p><p>Hunter blinked in confusion.</p><p>“That hooker whom you paid with the previous pair of stolen earrings,” Kat clarified.</p><p>Hunter cringed, but shook his head slowly.</p><p>“Turns out the earrings belonged to the wife of one of her clients. And he had recognized them on her. She came here looking for you the other day. I think she had a brick in her purse.”</p><p>“Yikes.” Craig sipped his beer.</p><p>“Uh…” Hunter stiffened in his seat. “Well, uh, but you’re not a hooker, Kat, so I uh…”</p><p>“How smooth. Honestly, Two Bits, if it was anyone but you, I would have been deadly offended by now,” Kat said coolly. “But it <em>is</em> you. So out of pity I will pretend none of this ever happened.”</p><p>Hunter looked down at the little velvet box sadly. He closed it and hid it in the inner pocket of his jacket without a word.</p><p>“If I want new earrings,” Kat said, “I’ll obtain them myself.” </p><p>“Hk-Awkward,” Craig coughed into his fist.</p><p>Ocher looked at Two Bits. He was an amazing thief, but he was probably the most miserable human being that Ocher had ever met. Despite his age and experience, the thin unkempt man failed to gain anyone’s respect. Ocher liked him. Everyone kind of did, because Hunter always went out of his way to try and be useful, but they all found him equally pathetic. That thought reminded Ocher of his fear that one day he would end up just like Hunter. Which in turn brought his mind back to the looming dread of tomorrow’s rendezvous.</p><p>Hunter finally lifted his eyes from the table, and noticing Ocher’s concerned look, nodded to him, probably to show appreciation for what he thought was sympathy. Ocher instantly felt guilty, so he gave a little nod back and smiled to Hunter reassuringly.</p><p>The uncomfortable silence finally dispersed after a waitress brought them another round of beers. Craig boasted about some ambitious scheme he was cooking up. It was all veiled, as they didn’t want to talk business in the open like that, but it didn’t stop him from hinting heavily what a big deal it was going to be. He did it every time, so the rest of the gang did not hold their breaths. </p><p>When Craig was about done with his boasting, Hunter asked without much enthusiasm if the others were perhaps planning to play poker sometime soon. Kat and Craig all but grabbed him by the arms, assuring him they would love to and instantly started to make arrangements for the time and place. They invited Ocher too, but he didn’t want either to lose money or watch the other two dupe Hunter yet again. Kat and Craig knew that Two Bits never came out as the winner at cards and felt perfectly comfortable squeezing the money out of him regardless. Ocher couldn’t blame them. They were thieves after all, and anyway if not them, then it would be someone else doing that to Hunter. At least this way the money stayed, approximately, between ‘friends’. But Ocher still couldn’t make himself take advantage of Hunter so cruelly.</p><p>The prospect of easy cash lifted Kat’s mood, and soon she was telling jokes again. Those grew progressively more and more hilarious as they drank. After several beers Hunter was openly staring at the woman love-struck. Ocher was about to nudge him and whisper a few sensible words of just barely sober advice, when Kat suddenly perked up, rising in her seat.</p><p>“Oh, my boyfriend is here to pick me up. I’ll see you guys next week.”</p><p>“Hm, the mythical boyfriend you’ve been scaring Two Bits with for weeks,” Craig drawled. “Let’s see ‘im.”</p><p>“Pf, what did you think, I was making that up just so Bits gets off my case?”</p><p>”That’s what we all thought…” Ocher muttered.</p><p>Kat rolled her eyes and shook her head. A moment later a menacing, butch guy with a clean-shaven scalp and a stubble-scattered chin stopped next to their table. He looked like an evil twin brother of Mr. Clean. Mr. Dirty seemed the kind of man you would like to avoid walking on the same side of the street with, especially at night. He would have fit right into a boxing ring or a dark alley, stabbing you in the gut and taking away all your belongings.</p><p>Craig, who normally needed to be pried off a comfy seat with a crowbar, nearly jumped out, letting Kat climb out from behind the table. He and the rest of the male thieves watched the newcomer with animalistic fear. This was definitely a guy who would break a man arm for so much as looking at his woman. Hunter’s face in particular grew comically long. </p><p>Kat straightened her clothes and pecked her scary man on the lips, murmuring greetings and thanks. She tried to make some quick introductions, but the thieves couldn’t muster much of a response, and the ruffian boyfriend that Kat called ‘Rance’ didn’t seem inclined to socialize. He hugged Kat by the waist and led her out of the bar with people making space for them without prompting.</p><p>“Oh no… How am I supposed to compete with that…?” Hunter murmured miserably, hiding his face in his hands.</p><p>“Yeah, Bits, better forget her…” Craig said, shaken. He was still staring after Kat and her bulky companion.</p><p>“Either of that…” Hunter muttered in a drunken haze.</p><p>The other two thieves exchanged equally confused looks, not sure what to make of his words. Was Two Bits seeing double already?</p><p>“Well, I think I’ll be calling it a day as well.” Ocher said finally. He didn’t really want to go, because leaving meant he would be alone with his thoughts again. But he didn’t want to risk getting drunk either. He had to be both sharp-witted and presentable tomorrow.</p><p>Craig sighed. “Yeah, it’s not the same without Kat around. Plus if I drink any more, I think I’d need a cab, and ain’t nobody got money for that, hm?”</p><p>“I will die alone…” Hunter whined.</p><p>“And that’s enough for you too, Two Bits. More than enough.” Craig picked Hunter’s glass up and set it aside. “Ocher, you mind catching the night bus with our Romeo? You’re going in the same direction anyway, right?”</p><p>“Yeah, sure. Come on, Hunter.” Ocher kind of wished he could switch with Hunter and die alone, in some fifty years from now, instead of dying in a few weeks, after a short-lived and brutal unwanted relationship with a mob boss. But of course, he couldn’t tell Hunter any of that. Or well, he could, but then he likely wouldn’t even get those few weeks to live.</p><p>They made their way out of the Big Dipper way less effectively than Kat and her man had. Nobody made space for them, and Hunter’s drunken despaired state wasn’t helping with navigating towards the exit. Finally the night air hit them, and Ocher steered them into the street leading to a nearby park that was the shortest route to the bus stop they needed.</p><p>The cheerful Friday night mood of the people they passed on their way contrasted sharply with Hunter’s moans and sighs, as he wordlessly lamented his fruitless crush. Every now and then he would look up at Ocher, like he was going to say something, and then he would say nothing instead. Ocher felt grateful for that, because he had no idea how to comfort the other thief, and his mind was preoccupied with his own, much more urgent predicament. As they were walking through the park though, Ocher had a sudden revelation that brought him out in cold sweat. </p><p>He looked around to make sure nobody was in the hearing range and asked, “Ah, say Hunter… that safe full of guns and drugs… could that have been someone from the Citizens?”</p><p>“What?” Hunter looked at him with a frown. It took him a moment to process the question and then his face grew somber. “Shit…” He stared ahead of himself in gut-wrenching silence. Then he shook his head. “No. No, it wasn’t one of the Citizens,” he said confidently.</p><p>“And why are you so sure?”</p><p>“Those people had moved from the East Coast just recently. The Citizens don’t operate there.”</p><p>“A-alright… phewh then.” Ocher was more than relieved.</p><p>“I know right? We already barely made it as it was, who’d need any of that crap?” Hunter shuddered.</p><p>Right. Who would? Framing someone from the Citizens was probably one of the worst things to do on a Friday night. Except maybe for framing someone from the Citizens on a Friday night, right before a date with their leader.</p><p class="has-text-align-center">⚞ ¥ ⚟</p><p>The markings on the asphalt melted into a white serpent as the two bikers raced each other through the slowly emptying highway and back towards New Coalport. Friday nights were the Pharaohs’ favourite time. It was when all five of them were able to finally break away from their weekly routines and come together unconcerned about heading back to work in the morning. </p><p>And they had done so tonight as well. They had ridden through the city streets, and then they hung out at Sam’s place, because Nana Riley was always delighted to have them over. But now the club meet-up was up, and it was just the two of them. Yen sped up to cut ahead of Nakhti and laughing gave the other biker the bird — finally his new bike could go faster than the club leader’s.</p><p>Nakhti laughed and with the roar of his Suzuki GSX 1100 L — a motorcycle that had been almost new when Nakhti first came to town — he rushed past Yen again. Neither of them was pushing their bikes to the limit. They were exceeding the allowed speed but not nearly as much as they could. All in all, the Pharaohs were a ridiculously lawful club, and sometimes Yen felt like he was the one proper rebel of the group. Especially around Sam, whose main pastimes aside from biking were reading books and dungeon mastering Dungeons and Dragons campaigns. </p><p>Despite being a childhood friend of such a huge nerd as Sam, Nakhti was a dark horse. He wasn’t a proper rebel though, rather than that, he was a guy with secrets. Some secrets, like Nakhti’s stash of drugs, Yen had managed to snoop out and was let in on, while the goody-two-shoes Sam still had no idea. But some others Nakhti wouldn’t share, and Yen had no business prying them out. If he couldn’t snort them or buy stuff with them, they were no good to him. But he enjoyed hanging around Nakhti, because there was always that element of mystery and danger to him that Yen found exciting and respectable. All in all, the guy made a very proper leader for their band of weirdos.</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <em>Nakhti</em>
</p><p>Feeling a sudden urge to impress him, Yen tried to pull off a wheelie. He managed to keep it going for a few seconds, before landing back down on two wheels, not quite as elegantly as he had hoped.</p><p>Before he managed to try that again, Nakhti shouted to him over the roar of their engines, “Just don’t! I’m not gonna scrape you off the road!”</p><p>Yen rolled his eyes, but complied. He had mastered the stunt on his previous bike, but he was still getting used to the new one. Nakhti was right on a different level too — it was dangerous to be roadkill in this city, because if Nakhti didn’t scrape him off the road, then he knew a certain priest who would do that. And then probably pack him into many neat packages and cash in on distributing parts of him to shady recipients. Yen hadn’t seen Blaise peddle any human remains so far, but it’s not like he was great at identifying those. Maybe some of those bones actually were human. That would take the whole thing onto a new level of questionable. After a moment’s consideration, Yen decided to forget about his second job and focus on Nakhti instead. The other night had been Daddy night, this one was boyfriend night.</p><p>They slowed down when they entered the city limits and then progressively decreased the speed even further, as they neared the street Nakhti lived on. The neighborhood was already asleep, and Nakhti had to somehow coexist with these neighbors, so they tried not to give them even more reasons to hate the gay biker that rented a house in their area.</p><p>Nakhti opened the garage, and they rolled their bikes into it. They entered the house through the garage and headed for the kitchen, where Nakhti grabbed two beers from the fridge. The driving for the night was done, so it was time for some booze at last. Before, at Sam’s, it was just sodas. Yen still thought they weretoo damn lawful for bikers, but he guessed at least that mostly kept them out of trouble with the cops, while all other clubs and gangs were constantly at odds with them. Yen caught the beer Nakhti threw at him and cracked the can open, taking a sip.</p><p>Nakhti’s house oozed Ancient Egyptian vibes just like Sam’s room, but not in the serious and geeky way. Sure, there were some posters with Egyptian art and symbols in the corridors and sculptures standing in the corners of rooms. And there was also a bit of stuff on the shelves and even a little shrine and some other shit like that, but somehow it was all more matter-of-fact here than at Sam’s. Nakhti didn’t care if Yen knocked over a god or two or leaned against a poster. And he actually owned a scarab-shaped ashtray, and a pyramid bottle-opener, something that Sam would probably think was blasphemy and had to be destroyed with fire. And that more relaxed attitude made Nakhti’s Egyptian angle seem <em>way</em> cooler.</p><p>Yen had never seen him openly excited or gushing over anything. Unlike Sam, who was misleadingly quiet with anyone but Yen and then once in a blue moon when the planets aligned, suddenly opened up to a fellow nerd to wax lyrical over something for hours and hours and hours. No, Nakhti never did that. Instead he was always the same amount of gloomy and sarcastic about everything, and that made the man much more classy. Nakhti knew and liked his Egyptian stuff — Yen heard him annihilate people verbally with Ancient Egypt facts a few times — but he didn’t flaunt it or annoyingly preach it or correct Yen ten times per minute. The only time he was nerdy about it, was when he talked to Sam, but that was fine. Other than that Nakhti could keep his Egypt facts in his pants and didn’t go mixing those into their private time. Yen really appreciated that about the man, along with plenty of other things.</p><p>Nakhti leaned against the sink, smirked at him and opened his beer as well. His eyes were still lined the Egyptian way. His hair was a glorious mess, but holding up rather well considering the rush of the night air. His shirt betrayed the shape of his sculpted pecs and abs, but most of his front was still obstructed by his leather jacket. Yen pictured what was under all the clothes and grinned appreciatively. Nakhti returned the expression. And then he went and ruined the mood. </p><p>“So, I couldn’t help but notice you’ve been a scarce good lately, only I don’t know where the demand is coming from.” Before he dropped it all to work in a wrecking yard and run a motorcycle club, Nakhti had worked and studied finance or economy or something like that. And sometimes he still liked to fall back on that. “Would you kindly tell me where you spend your nights these days, when you’re not with me or Samut?”</p><p>Yen arched an eyebrow. “What is this, the Spanish Inquisition? I never questioned how you can afford this house on a junkyard worker’s salary. A little reciprocation of that trust would be nice.”</p><p>Nakhti withheld his accusatory gaze with his usual calm. “I told you how. I invest.” He arched an eyebrow back at Yen, and nodded at him, clearly awaiting a reply to his query.</p><p>“Yeah, well, I’ve never seen you go to the financial district, but okay, sure.” Yen sipped his beer. “I have a second job too. There’s this silver fox that peddles miracle cures or some shit to the mentally unsound. I’m his delivery boy.”</p><p>“Mhm, I see.” Nakhti drank his beer and kept watching him. </p><p>Yen knew it wasn’t about him sleeping around. Nakhti was not the jealous type. Somewhat possessive, yes, but he was open-minded too. He knew that look meant Nakhti would continue speaking, so they just eyed each other skeptically. </p><p>“So that’s how you got your new bike then? From that <em>salary</em>?”</p><p>“Yep. Why? Do you moonlight as a tax inspector now? Is that how you <em>really</em> afford this house?”</p><p>Nakhti set his beer aside and walked over to him. “Well, you could say so, as I am about to inspect the place where you’ve been seen storing some potentially illegal earnings,” he said with a dark kind of smirk and followed Yen’s body down to his crotch.</p><p>Yen set his own beer aside, unable to hold back an amused half-smile. “Aha, and how would you know about that?”</p><p>“Oh, the same way the revenue agency always finds out.” Nakhti said, sounding all serious and still giving Yen’s crotch a suspicious, analytic look. “It was an anonymous tip by a concerned third party.”</p><p>“Right. Thanks, Uncle Sam.”</p><p>“Sorry about that, Yen, but our mutual friend grew very concerned by the dollar bill rolls in your pants, and so I promised him I’d talk to you. Personally, I don’t care if you’re working for miracle sellers or Catholic priests, but I just hope you’re not converting to a non-Ancient Egyptian religion.”</p><p>“If you’re asking if I’m getting a dude on a cross tattooed on my ass then no, I’m still in for the scarab,” Yen reassured him.</p><p>Nakhti sighed. Something told Yen that he would have preferred if Yen was planning to get an Egypt related tattoo anywhere except on the butt, but Nakhti didn’t bring up the topic. “Good enough by me.” He said instead, “And now that that’s out of the way…”</p><p>“… You’re going to take me for another kind of moonlit ride.”</p><p>“Precisely.” Nakhti bowed down and kissed him.</p><p>
  
</p><p> </p><hr class="wp-block-separator"/><p class="has-text-align-center">
  <em>And here are a couple songs for the Pharaohs MC! </em>
  <br/>
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  <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rpePDjMKb8k">
    <strong>Village People – Can’t Stop the Music</strong>
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  <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=O7Oq3JChhhE">
    <strong>Village People – I Am What I Am</strong>
  </a>
</p><p class="has-text-align-center">
  <em>And this one for Yen specifically:</em>
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  <br/>
  <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TsoLb-E7oy8">
    <strong>WASP – Wild Child</strong>
  </a>
</p>
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